Tied for Last
by Speechwriter
Summary: Hermione is killed by Voldemort, and is now dead. Well, sort of. Turns out that death is a little more complex than she knew... Ignores epilogue and last 50ish pages of DH.
1. Chapter 1

**Note: This fic is undergoing renovation. If you're curious, check my profile for the occasional update on where I am in re-uploads, etc. Several editing passes may occur. We shall see.**

**In any case, it should be all done by August (because that's when college applications start. Bleh).**

** In the interim, thank you for your patience!**

** -Speechwriter**

* * *

This was not how it was supposed to happen.

No, definitely not. After those pale, spidery, fingers had picked the wand back up, and placed it to her throat, and murmured those two soft words, that ricochet of green light had definitely indicated that she should die. Not that she should be here.

She knew quite a bit about old magic, about things that might delay her journey through death and land her in this place. One snippet in particular came to mind—something called thread theory, something she had read about in a book once: the number of ties one had to life determined which direction a hypothetical death would take them. And, if one was tied to life enough, the soul could be caught halfway between life and death, stranded in the place hovering between the two. One such tie would, of course, be a horcrux, but there were endless other magics that had a similar, if reduced, effect.

Hermione Granger sat idly on the front lawn of a dreamlike Hogwarts, wondering where she had gone wrong.

She counted the number of things that could have kept her marginally alive – enough so to be here, in any case. She was a Secret-Keeper for both Harry and Ron; those secrets stayed with her now, creating a bridge between life and death. She had placed a never-ending character charm – much like the one on the Sorting Hat – on a book she left in Hogwarts, specifically so that it could give advice to those that wrote in its pages. Of course, she didn't know every spell she'd done that might have yielded such a tie—various wards that she had put up around areas of Hogwarts remained; was that enough to tie her back to life?

Wouldn't that put the Founders here as well, then? They had done so much vital, long-lasting magic. And as far as Hermione could see, she was alone.

Hermione sighed. Harry had told her about this place—after Voldemort had killed him the first time, he had found himself in King's Cross. But Hermione was at Hogwarts, and a very strange and beautiful Hogwarts it was. Each stone in the castle seemed smoother, each blade of grass more emerald, the lake clearer and the sky bluer.

It had been six months since Harry had been killed the first time. As he had awakened, he had frozen, contemplating his options. He could stand and fight singlehandedly. Many of his mentors would call that foolish, he knew. He could wait, for God knows how long, and risk someone discovering he was still breathing, his heart drumming like that of a frightened animal. Dangerous. Or he could find a way back to Hogwarts, a way to regroup.

He chose the last option.

Harry Potter had not been accustomed to running. He was not accustomed to the feeling of turning his back on an enemy. And he barely managed to escape with his life—it was a miracle he had it back in the first place—but he managed to join the rest of his troops within Hogwarts. They set up shields of all sorts, and they trained every soldier until even the students could hold their own against the teachers' more advanced spells. After all, there was no need to take risks. The wards would not hold forever. Not against Lord Voldemort.

But they held for five long months.

Then Death Eaters managed to find a way into the castle.

Hermione found herself alone in the Room of Requirement. And, as luck would have it, she wasn't just discovered by a Death Eater, but by Voldemort himself. He recognized her as one of Harry's best friends.

But he did not recognize her as a Secret-Keeper. He didn't know that when he killed her, he was killing his chance at finding either Harry or Ron, forever, as Hermione had told absolutely no one their whereabouts. After his Legilimency failed in the face of a newfound and formidable Occlumens, the Dark Lord pressed the tip of his ivory wand to her throat and said, "Avada Kedavra," and he did not know the consequences. So Hermione Jean Granger had died with a smile on her face.

Hermione lay back on the cool grass, staring up into the sky. She couldn't determine which season it was – it was warm, but the earth felt cold.

She couldn't be the only one here, surely? There must have been others. Even just one other person would have made the place bearable.

Well, she wouldn't just wait around. Hermione hoisted herself to her feet, adjusting her voluminous brown hair, and strode off towards the castle.

The dream Hogwarts was identical to the one in real life, if a bit more idealistic. The library had the same books, although there was no Madam Pince. The tables laid the same food, though there were no house-elves enslaved downstairs. And the portraits, strangely, were still animated, which reassured Hermione. She had a lengthy conversation with the Fat Lady, who was just as flighty and preposterous as in real life. Eventually, the Fat Lady just admitted to Hermione that the password was 'Venomous Tentacula' and let her inside.

The common room smelled as it always did, looked as it always did, and it was there that Hermione met the first people she would see in this dreamlike world.

Hermione's hazel eyes gazed around the common room. It was hardly packed with people – there were perhaps a dozen in the common room, each dressed in Gryffindor robes – but to see any people at all was a shock beyond belief.

Hermione was surprised. There were this many people that were trapped between life and death?

Then again, millions of witches and wizards had died. A dozen was a tiny number to be trapped in-between, she supposed.

As Hermione stepped into the common room, the conversation died into absolute silence. Then a young man with red hair and green eyes spoke up.

"So, you're new?"

Hermione nodded.

"Nice to have you join the ranks," said the redhead, who was tall and radiated healthy power. "What got you stuck in here? A horcrux or ten?"

He said the last few words with a joking tone, but the others in the room got instantly quiet as soon as he mentioned horcruxes. Hermione stared, awed that this boy would toss around the word so casually.

"No. I'm…I'm not really sure why I'm here," she answered carefully.

The redhead grinned. "Well, glad to see you're not one of those horcrux types. They make me uneasy."

A tall, dark-haired boy sitting next to him punched him. "Shut up."

"R.J. here is just such a specimen," said the redhead with a smirk. "My name's Godric, by the way. He's R.J. King."

Hermione just stared. Surely he wasn't Godric _Gryffindor_. Surely if she were standing merely feet from the most famous Gryffindor ever to live, she would know it. She said, "Godric...Gryffindor?"

The boy nodded.

A lump formed in Hermione's throat. This was surreal. If Godric Gryffindor was here, did that mean that she was going to be trapped here forever? He must have been here for centuries. "I'm Hermione Granger," she eventually replied. "It's really...er, interesting to meet you."

"What year is it back home?" the dark-haired boy, R.J., asked.

"It's 1998."

R.J. blew at his hair. "Huh," he said. "It's been a while, then."

"Why, when did you get here?"

"Back in 1971," R.J. told her, "but time doesn't really work the same here. A few years is more like a few months, and we don't exactly age. God knows I don't understand it."

Godric raised an eyebrow. "Also, there've really been a lot of great wizards kicking the bucket in your time, eh?"

Hermione laughed uneasily. "Why?"

"Well, there've been lots of people coming in and out," said R.J., shrugging. "All sorts, all houses."

"In…and out?"

"They've all faded relatively quickly," explained Godric. "The ties to Earth are proportional to the strength of the magic, of course, so not many people stay for long. The last one from your time faded last week."

"And none of them…none of them explained why…why they were here?"

Godric and R.J. exchanged a glance. "Er, no," said R.J.

Of course. They wouldn't want these people to know the truth about the world now. That would be too terrible, to be trapped here with the knowledge that the real world was under siege.

Hermione stared around. If the most recent person in this room had arrived in 1971... That meant that no one here had seen the rise of Voldemort, had seen him kill innocents, throw the world into chaos—

Hermione sank into a squashy armchair opposite Godric and R.J. "So," she said, "could you tell me how you got here?"

"I worked for the Ministry of Magic," said R.J., "and they were doing testing on dark magic for some reason. I got trapped into doing an experiment with a horcrux. Got forced to make one."

Hermione frowned. Shouldn't that have been illegal? Then again, the Ministry of Magic had always been more than a little bit corrupt. "Who made you?"  
"I was an Unspeakable. My superior was Andros Lestrange. He had a kid in my year at Hogwarts."

"Hold on. If you didn't die, then why are you stuck here?" Hermione blinked owlishly at him.

R.J. shrugged. "This is my horcrux self. It got destroyed somehow, so that puts the horcrux in here until the rest of the soul dies to join it."

"Oh. So, you're still alive, back on earth? This you is the actual horcrux half of the soul?"

"Yup."

Hermione chewed on that piece of information for a while. How many people had ever created horcruxes? Weren't they all supposed to be evil? Who had this man killed to create a horcrux?

Well, that was more than private business. She couldn't ask R.J. Besides, if it was a Lestrange that had forced him to make one, it was understandable. The Lestranges were veritably insane.

So she turned to Godric and opened her mouth to ask a question, but found she had none. All her years on Earth she had wished she could meet historical figures to ask them questions, but now that she was stuck in this in-between, it seemed pointless. So she just asked something useless, her voice dry and practically sarcastic. "So, care to explain why we're not see-through?"

Godric laughed. "Just because we're not quite here, doesn't mean our physical bodies show it. You're going to get hungry and thirsty and tired just like in the real world. We just don't...age."

"And why is the fixed age…this age?"

Godric exchanged a glance with R.J. "Well, we're not sure about that," he said, "but we think it's because magic starts young and stays young forever, so if you place only a magically-tied part of yourself here, it stays young too. Can't be sure, but I mean, look at me. Look at R.J. Look at Albus. Look at all of us. None of us look as old as we are."

All of a sudden, Hermione broke out in a cold sweat. _Albus_?

A young man with auburn hair turned to them. "Did someone say my name?" he asked with a cheerful grin.

Hermione was stunned. There were parts of the young Dumbledore that looked nearly the same as before – half-moon glasses, with clever eyes behind them, a dancing smile. But his hair was dark and tied back in a loose, frizzy ponytail, and the lines on his face were noticeably absent.

"Professor Dumbledore?" Dumbledore's eyes locked on her, but he made no outward sign that he knew her.

"Professor?" he laughed. "Of what?"

Hermione's eyebrows rose so high that they practically vanished into her hair. How could this be possible? How could he not know of his being a professor? He would have had to be here since before he had become the Transfiguration professor, since before the 1930s.

"Hello?" Dumbledore said, waving his hand to break Hermione's blank stare.

Hermione sighed and closed her eyes. "Sorry about that. It's just—never mind."

"Come on, Albus," R.J. said, knocking Dumbledore with his shoulder. "I already told you, I learned from you at Hogwarts. You were the head a year after I arrived."

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows, looking quietly bewildered, and then a look of remembrance came over him. "Yes, you did say something to that effect, didn't you?"

Hermione felt like she couldn't tell any of the three boys about what had happened to Dumbledore. It didn't seem right.

Everyone seemed so cheerful. They were trapped in the dim twilight between life and death—why weren't they bothered by that? How could they be _satisfied_ with that?

A girl walked up then, a tall girl with black hair, sharp grey eyes, and a wicked grin. "So, who are you, then?" she asked. "I'm Filemina. Call me Mina. Used to be a Quidditch Captain."

She stuck out a hand. Hermione shook it tentatively. "I'm Hermione," she introduced quietly. "Nice to meet you."

"A bit shy, are you?" Mina asked, grinning even wider.

Hermione spluttered. "If my friends could hear you say that, they'd have a laugh," she chuckled. "When are you from?"

"1918," said Mina. "Same year as Albus, here. Weird coincidence."

Albus raised an eyebrow at Mina. "Not really a coincidence," he told Hermione. "We were working on the same project."

"What was that?"

Mina sighed. "Trying to make a First Task for the Triwizard Tournament. They tried to resurrect it a few times after 1792, but they all failed. Especially our attempt."

"Let's not talk about that!" suggested Dumbledore brightly. "Is anyone else hungry?"

"You're always hungry," muttered R.J.

Godric stood up with a lazy yawn. "Albus, mate, you're not the only one." He clapped Dumbledore on the shoulder, making him stumble a little. The younger Dumbledore was as lean and wiry as the older, and Godric was huge, a beast of a boy. "Let's go get some food. You all want to come?"

Hermione nodded. She found that she was starving – she wondered how long it had been in the real world since she had died. A few days? It was a strange thought.

R.J. unfolded himself from the armchair with a groan. He was handsome, pale, with bright blue eyes, and reminded Hermione a little of Harry with his unkempt, jet-black hair.

Hermione scanned the rest of the room, looking for any familiar faces. She recognized Miranda Goshawk—author of The Standard Book of Spells—with a rush of excitement. She was a pretty, pixie-like girl who was scribbling furiously on an impossibly long piece of parchment.

Mina tapped Hermione on the shoulder. "Coming?" she asked. Hermione nodded and followed the tall girl through the portrait hole.

The Great Hall seemed disproportionately large, due to the meager number of students in it. It glowed with light shining through the tall windows, illuminating the depressingly empty teachers' table in front of the four House tables.

Hermione couldn't stop herself from thinking, _I will never sit here with Harry and Ron again._

The tables were filled with mouthwatering dishes. "Oh, good, pot pie. I haven't had this in a while," commented Godric, piling nearly half a pie onto his place. Mina winced.

"He eats _everything_," she told Hermione. "Don't get too close – he might try to eat your arm or something."

Hermione laughed, but it was bitter. Godric's eating habits reminded her painfully of Ron.

She and Ron had had an intense relationship over the last few months. He hadn't wanted her to be his Secret-Keeper, but she had insisted. She'd performed the Fidelius Charm, thus concealing his hiding-place, and when Ron had attempted to become her Secret-Keeper in return, he hadn't been able to perform the Charm.

Then Hermione had gone downstairs to talk to someone, and Death Eaters had found a way in.

It hurt to think about. Hermione worried about what Ron and Harry were doing back in the world of the living, worried about what was happening to them.

_I hope you're safe, Ronald Bilius Weasley. My Ron._

"Are you alright?" R.J. asked her quietly, breaking her from her reverie. "I know it's hard the first few weeks, but it gets better. You start to look on the bright side of life. Or, well, the bright side of whatever this is."

Hermione tried to smile a little. "I just—I know neither of them is going to come here." Battle magic was temporary, so it wouldn't tie. For all Harry's brilliance with the Patronus, with offensive magic in general, he would never arrive here.

R.J. didn't ask who 'they' were, just said, "Eventually you'll move on, too. Don't worry – all ties have to fade sometime. Helga Hufflepuff moved on a while ago. I've got a bet on with Albus that Rowena will be here after both Godric and Salazar are gone. It's only a matter of time—you'll go. We all do."

She never thought she would be reassured by the thought of death.

"Wait. Rowena..." she said, peering over at the Ravenclaw table. She was less than surprised to see twice as many people there as any other House. The prized pursuit of knowledge. Rowena Ravenclaw was stunningly beautiful, as befit her house, and she looked regal and sharp.

Then Hermione glanced at the Slytherin table. _Salazar._

The beady-eyed Founder sat at the end of the table with a man Hermione recognized as Herpo the Foul, the discoverer of both basilisks and horcruxes. There were quite a few unsavory characters there, like the writer of Magick Moste Evile, Revelend Godelot, and a man who looked highly Malfoy-reminiscent—not Lucius, and not Draco, so probably his ancestor before that, Abraxas Malfoy.

But the one upon whom Hermione's eyes fixed was the boy in-between Abraxas and a woman who had the pointed features of Sirius Black. This boy sat up very straight and had black hair, impeccably arranged, and dark, quiet eyes. He was nearly impossibly handsome, with straight, serious eyebrows and an air of silent confidence.

Hermione observed the way the Slytherins were associating. Every so often, one of the other Slytherins would look at the boy with the dark hair, as if for approval. He himself didn't say much, but every movement seemed to revolve around him in a strange way. He only smiled once throughout the entire conversation, a smirk, really. His eyebrow quirked, and the expression exuded a dizzying charisma.

Mina peered over at Hermione, and then glanced at the Slytherins. An easy grin spread across her face. "Looking at that guy with the black hair, huh?" she asked Hermione.

Hermione blinked. "Yes. Well, not really. Who is he?"

But she already had an inkling.

"Tom Riddle," Mina said, with a wistful sigh. "It's not quite fair, how gorgeous he is."

"No," Hermione agreed, memories flooding her mind of a snakelike man with paper-white skin, thin white lips saying, "Crucio," over, and over and over—

Hermione lifted a bite of potatoes to her mouth and managed to look away from Tom Riddle. "Not fair at all," she mumbled quietly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks so much to Galavantian, Nerys, Vinwin, Gonewiththerain09, and Claire Reno for your reviews.**

**Speechwriter**

* * *

The first rays of sunrise through Hermione's window woke her gently, shimmering just a little more than was normal.

Hermione groaned, brushing her hair from her eyes and rolling out of bed. Someone was banging on the door. "Merlin's beard, Ronald, shut up."

Then she opened the door and was surprised, because she was jolted into remembering that it was not, and would never be again, Ron or Harry at her door. "Oh. Sorry, Mina. Thought you were... never mind."

Mina frowned. "Who's Ronald?"

"Friend from... back home," Hermione said, waving a hand vaguely.

Mina's face fell. "Oh. I'm sorry... do you want to talk about it?" she asked awkwardly, her cheerful smile dropping from her face to be replaced with careful concern.

Hermione didn't feel like she would ever want to talk about it with anyone, at risk of bursting into angry tears. So she just said, "Don't worry about it."

"All right, well, breakfast's on the table. R.J. and Godric were wondering if you were coming down to eat with us. We can announce your arrival to the school."

"Yeah, I just woke up. Give me ten minutes?"

"Sure, sure," Mina said. "See you."

Hermione shut the door and looked in the mirror with a groan. Everything was far more beautiful here, but that happy blessing seemed to have skipped her face in the morning. She restrained a snicker as she observed the way her hair stuck out at strange angles. Taking out her wand, she flicked it back into place and combed out the tangles and knots with a twitch of the thin piece of wood.

Yawning, Hermione threw on her robes and hurried down the stairs, blinking the sleep from her eyes.

Bizarrely, she already felt used to this happy, peaceful Hogwarts, despite her endless months of creeping around in the shadows, terrified for her life. The walk down to the Great Hall, down the moving staircases, through the glowing hallways, was serene. The conversation was sparse, perhaps because R.J. and Godric were half-asleep. They only perked up when they entered the Great Hall and smelled the scents of breakfast.

The Hall seemed fuller than it had last night. Looking around, Hermione guessed that there were about seventy-five people total – the fewest Hufflepuffs, with only ten or so at most, closely followed by Gryffindor. Ravenclaw and Slytherin by far dominated the Great Hall in numbers. Apparently, House rivalries lasted long after death, because there was no shortage of hostile glares in the Hall.

Hermione was mortified when Mina stood up, looked around, and banged the lid of a dish with a metal spoon. The Great Hall fell silent.

"Everyone, this is Hermione Granger," Mina said loudly. "She just got here yesterday. She's a Gryffindor."

At that word, there were jeers and hissing from the Slytherin table. Hermione shot a nervous look over there and found that her eyes were drawn immediately to Tom Riddle, as if his face were a magnet for her stare. She felt a cold shock hit her body as he looked up and met her gaze with dark, shielded eyes. He was not making any noise, no booing, no hissing—just observing, sitting straight, tall, calm. He blinked slowly, breaking the spell, and Hermione swallowed, looking back to Mina.

"Shut up, you stupid gits," Mina called to the Slytherins. There was some general chuckling from the Gryffindors. "So, that's it. Yet another person from 1998."

The Hogwarts students were quiet for a moment. There were some puzzled mutters before the usual clatter and clamor of breakfast resumed. Mina and sat back down. "The Slytherins will probably give you a hard time for a while. Don't worry about them. They'll calm down eventually."

"That's reassuring," Hermione muttered.

Godric grinned. "Hey, if they try to jump out at you from behind a suit of armor or something you'll be able to smell their greasy hair product from miles away," he said. Hermione laughed, surprised that Godric was so up-to-date on relatively modern trends.

"How do you know about hair gel?" she spluttered.

Godric shrugged. "I have my sources," he said, with a glance over to R.J., who was too busy stuffing his face to pay much attention. "This guy takes far too good care of his hair," he whispered loudly to Hermione, and at that, R.J. looked up and scowled.

"Just 'cause I have a sense of appearance, Godric," he said pointedly, "doesn't make me effeminate."

"Hey, no one here questioned your masculinity," Mina replied. "Unless someone's a little defensive..." She waggled her thin black eyebrows and grinned that sharp grin at Hermione, who couldn't help but smile at the I'm-far-too-used-to-this look on R.J.'s face.

Hermione looked around. "So, if you don't have classes, what exactly do you... you know, what do you do around here?" She couldn't imagine a life at Hogwarts without classes. Hermione was so devoted to every subject she took – even History of Magic, which she secretly found almost as dull as Harry and Ron found it – that she couldn't picture having nothing to do, nothing assigned.

The other three looked at each other and shrugged. "There's a lot to discover around Hogwarts," said R.J., his low voice nearly secretive. "A lot of the time, we go sneaking around, looking for hidden places. It's not bad."

"I, personally, would rather take classes," Hermione said, an unintentional note of superiority coloring her light voice. "Are there any?"

Godric chuckled. "So you're the Miranda type. There aren't any classes, no, but the library is always open."

R.J. added, "Also, most of the people here are really phenomenal witches and wizards. You can ask a lot of them if you'd like a lesson in something or other. Myself excepted, of course."

Mina elbowed him. "R.J. is such a liar," she scoffed. "He's really great at a lot of things. Like Transfiguration. And Ancient Runes."

"Oh, I adore runes!" exclaimed Hermione, her eyes brightening. Of course, everyone here would be exceptionally advanced, otherwise they wouldn't have any strong magical ties to earth to bring them here in the first place. The things she could learn...

Of course, she shouldn't be focusing on herself. She should be trying to get back to Earth, trying to get back to help the resistance. Assuming it was even still going. The food seemed to dry up in Hermione's mouth as she considered the possibilities.

Godric broke her concentration. "We also have Quidditch matches every so often. They get sort of bloody, though."

"Sort of?" laughed Mina. She turned to Hermione. "The last one that happened, every player except three broke some limb or other. No teachers to keep control, see."

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "No one steps up to make sure people stay safe? Don't we, you know, feel pain here?"

R.J. reached over and pinched her arm. "Ow!" she hissed.

He shrugged. "I guess you can feel pain, then," he said, and brushed back his dark hair with an easy smile. Hermione sighed. He really was a lot like Harry, in appearance and demeanor, while Godric was strangely like Ron—in looks, at least...

Hermione's mind flickered back on track. Neither of her two best friends could ever be replaced. Hopefully, though, Hermione could join them on Earth…there had to be some way to get _back_; she was alive enough to be here, right?

A tenor voice interrupted her thoughts as Albus scooted over with Miranda Goshawk to join the conversation. "Are we telling Hermione about this Hogwarts?" Albus asked serenely.

"I'm Miranda Goshawk," Miranda said. She had a light, airy voice.

"I've read all your books," Hermione told her excitedly, and Miranda smiled absentmindedly, her light brown hair shining in the long rays of sun.

Hermione looked up, suddenly missing the flood of owls that used to arrive during breakfast – but of course, that wouldn't happen here. She never used to get much mail, anyway. The Daily Prophet, for a while, but that consisted the bulk of her mail. A small smile quirked the corner of her lips as she remembered how Harry had received the Nimbus 2000 through mail, their very first year...

"Also, if you're really at a loss for activity, there are a few students that just make up things for us to do," Godric said. "A few Ravenclaws and Gryffindors, I think. Games, et cetera."

Hermione nodded, but her mind was elsewhere. No frivolity. She had a mission. She had a home, and it wasn't here.

She dug back into breakfast, relieved to find that the eggs were just as delicious here as they had been back home.

After breakfast, Miranda loudly announced that she was going to the common room to work on her essay, and left.

"She's been working on that damn essay for two weeks now," Mina said. "More like a novel, if you ask me." She stood. "I'm off to the pitch." She grabbed her bag.

"I'm coming, hold on," said Godric, standing too. "I'll see you later, Hermione."

R.J. looked at their retreating backs. "Well, sorry, but I'm going to have to desert you too. I told Dickins I'd help him with some rune translations."

"No, no, it's fine," Hermione reassured, waving him on. She needed time to think, anyway. After she had arrived, she had hardly had an uninterrupted second to consider options.

The library. Her refuge – that was where she would go.

She reached for her bag, usually stuffed full of books, quills, parchment, ink, but her hand met only air, and she remembered that she didn't have a bag anymore. Feeling very empty-handed, Hermione stood and walked briskly out of the Great Hall.

The leisurely journey to the library was a familiar one that she hadn't taken in a long time. With no Madam Pince to suppress the freedoms of students, Hermione almost expected there to be people inside chattering loudly, but she was relieved to find that it was stone silent and practically empty, except for a solemn-looking, plump Ravenclaw boy sitting at a table, reading about Animagi. She gave him a quick, awkward smile and quickly moved into the aisles.

Though she tried only to look at the familiar tomes on the brightly-lit shelves, her gaze kept straying backwards to the door that read, 'Restricted Section'. _Those books are restricted for a reason. I don't need them._ So why did she keep glancing that way?

Oh, to hell with it. She had never delved extensively into the Restricted Section, but surely there would be something useful in there about the afterlife. After all, who knew more about death than those who were skilled in the Dark Arts?

She moved into the darker stacks. There was a different smell to the books back here – older; more dangerous. She moved down one aisle, and turned the corner, slightly distracted by a brown book on the last shelf with a nasty sort of stain on it—

As she turned, her shoulder knocked into a tall body which was standing in front of a bookshelf. Hermione let out a small 'oh' of surprise, her heart racing as she realized who she had just knocked into. She had drawn her wand out of instinct, holding it up like a participant in a duel.

The body turned. "Sorry," he said quietly, and his gaze flickered onto her vine wand as she put it away quickly. His voice was low and sweet, strangely innocent-sounding, nothing like the high cackle of the later Dark Lord. As his eyes met hers again, Hermione couldn't keep her heart from racing in fear. The last time she had looked into these eyes, she had been tortured mercilessly. They were red, then, though – red, without a shred of humanity in them. This boy was just that – a boy. _Are they really the same person? How did this person turn into that – that... thing?_

Hermione opened her mouth. "Oh, no, I'm sorry," she squeaked, all in a rush, mentally kicking herself. If she wanted to stay under his radar, getting unnecessarily flustered was possibly the worst way to go about it – although, with his looks, he couldn't have been unused to girls acting strangely around him.

She thought she saw a flicker of mild confusion pass over his face, but he suppressed it masterfully. Tom Riddle was shielding himself completely. "Are you alright?" he asked. That sleek voice, like oil and silk, with just a hint of boyishness – it gave away nothing he didn't want to reveal.

Hermione calmed herself. "Fine. Just... startled," she replied, with a small smile.

He raised an eyebrow, and Hermione's breath caught in her throat. Thinking that he was attractive was a repulsive notion in and of itself, but it was undeniable. Strong features combined with his strangely delicate nose and lips gave him an aristocratic air. It was more than upheld by his ramrod-straight posture. "Are you looking for something in particular?"

_He's trying to get information out of me,_ Hermione deduced instantly.

Then she took a deep breath. She was being paranoid. He probably didn't suspect a thing. "No, nothing in particular," she said. "I just never really went in here back in the real world. Not much, anyway, and I figured they might have some useful books."

Hermione panicked inwardly. Why had she said useful? He would read into that, think she was up to something.

_Paranoia! Calm down!_

His dark gaze was calm, unbroken. Feeling self-conscious, Hermione brushed her hair back. "How about you?" she asked, and a smirk appeared on Tom Riddle's face, as if he were surprised anyone would dare to question his motives.

"Same as yourself," he responded quietly. There was something fascinating in the sinuous way his lips moved, especially since Hermione knew that every word from his mouth was probably a lie. "Just browsing," he murmured, looking back at the bookshelves. "There are some fascinating things in here..."

Hermione nodded. "I'm sure," she said. "Anything you'd recommend?"

He looked back at her quickly, as if surprised, and smiled disbelievingly. It was a dazzling smile. His remarkably dark eyes lingered on her face a little too long, and then he shook his head a little and blinked. "Pardon me," he said. "Just—not many Gryffindors bother coming back here. Especially not Gryffindor girls."

"Oh," Hermione said. "Well, I – ah – no."

_What am I doing?_ She was too flustered to know what to say or do. Apparently, she had attracted his attention simply by being here—she had to drag herself back into the ranks of normalcy somehow. How? What would most girls do when confronted with a Tom Riddle they didn't know a thing about?

Well, they'd probably swoon, but Hermione couldn't even think about that without feeling nauseated. No, the day she acted like a lovesick puppy over the Dark Lord was a very improbable day indeed.

"I'm Tom Riddle," he finally said, breaking the silence, holding out a hand.

"Hermione Granger," Hermione said, relieved. She took his hand and shook it. He had soft, warm, disturbingly human hands, and a steady, sure grip.

"Yes, I know. I heard at breakfast," said Riddle, turning away from the books and leaning against the bookshelf to engage more fully in conversation_._ "So, 1998," he continued. "How did that work out for you?"

She shrugged. "Evidently, not too well," she said, earning a wry smile. "When are you from?"

He picked at a fingernail. "1945."

1945. The year of his first created horcrux. Perhaps, with every time the soul was torn, some of it made its way here—otherwise, Riddle would only have gotten here when Harry had destroyed his diary back in the early 1990's... "Hm," she replied absentmindedly, as if slightly disinterested. "So, can you remember why?"

He would have to lie about this. Hermione kept her eyes peeled for any hint of usual signs of lying—moving jerkily, blinking a lot, touching the face – but he did nothing of the sort. His mouth tugged down a little at the edges, as if in thought. "As far as I can remember, I was helping work on a project in Magical Law Enforcement, and something went terribly wrong." He gave another wry, curling smile, making Hermione fidget. "And you, Ms. Granger?"

The way he said her name was so close to mocking that Hermione felt like he somehow already knew too much. "I created this book that would answer questions written in it." That was probably far less incriminating than being a Secret-Keeper. "Nothing bad," she added quickly, and then mentally slapped herself again. _What am I doing?_

"Yes," Riddle gave her that lazy, powerful stare. "Which charm did you use?"

"That would be telling." Hermione took a deep breath, drew herself up, and said, "I should probably go back to my common room, actually. Miranda's expecting me."

Riddle made a sudden, completely unanticipated motion, as if to move towards her, which startled her heart into a sprint. In the end, though, he just said, "I wouldn't object if you stayed."

"Oh, really?" Hermione spluttered. "Thank you, your Highness."

He smirked again. A weirdly endearing dimple appeared on his left cheek, and his eyes softened. _Oh, what a liar. Everything about him is a lie. There is no softness there._

"I didn't mean it like that," he said. "I just... am rarely interested by people."

"Why?"

"I don't know," replied Riddle calmly, and left it without a reason. Hermione had a split-second debate. If she fled now, he might try to approach her later under the pretense of acquaintanceship. If she stayed, she would have no choice but to continue talking to him—Lord Voldemort at seventeen. And she was woefully unprepared for more of this.

So she said, "I'm sorry, I really do have to leave. Miranda said she'd like me to read over her essay. I guess... I'll see you later." He gave her a slight nod of a goodbye. With her best attempt at an apologetic glance, she walked away, feeling his eyes on her practically until she said, "Venomous Tentacula" to the Fat Lady.

"Well, someone's looking tired." Mina eyed her. "What'd you do, run a marathon?"

"Might as well have," snorted Hermione, slumping into an armchair. "Just talked with Tom Riddle."

Mina suddenly looked interested. She strode over and plopped down next to Hermione. "Oh, really! Do tell."

"He seemed... nice." She practically choked on the word. "Really intimidating. I felt like I was on the spot when he talked to me."

Mina nodded. "Yeah, I talked with him once. He's got great eyes. So... mysterious." _You have no idea what he's hiding._ "Nice and dark, too."

Too dark, in Hermione's opinion. If eyes were the windows to the soul, Tom Riddle's were completely shuttered. Hermione made a noncommittal 'meh' noise in response.

"How was Quidditch practice?" Hermione asked. "How was the weather?"

"Weather never changes here," Mina said moodily. "It gets a bit boring after a while, so sometimes we cast charms to change the weather and stuff. This Ravenclaw girl Melia Trueblood, she's a weather witch. But anyway – we need a new beater. Anderson Prewett is really overenthusiastic... Do you play any Quidditch?"

Hermione shook her head. "My best friends played Quidditch. Keeper and Seeker. I used to just watch. Or do my homework," she mused, with a chuckle. Now that she thought about it, she wished she had watched more practices, been more supportive of Ron. She had always been wrapped up in learning more, doing more, for the eventual good. Harry had understood that just a little more than Ron, although neither of them had really fundamentally believed in the only thing she believed in. Knowledge. The source of all power. The only way to advance.

Well, that was a very Slytherin thought to think. Hermione sighed and stretched. "Maybe I'll come and watch you next time," she told Mina, who smiled.

"That'd be nice. Godric could use some cheering from the sidelines. Now there's a terrible Chaser if I ever saw one..."

Hermione laughed. Thinking about the founder of Gryffindor House having any faults at all was amusing at the very least.

The rest of the day, Hermione read over some earlier parts of Miranda's incredibly long essay. It was eight full rolls of parchment – twenty-four feet in all – and Miranda was working on a ninth roll as Hermione read, her hazel eyes moving so quickly they were practically blurred. It was absolutely fascinating. Miranda's almost theological view of magic had a reverential touch to it that Hermione adored reading. It was how she herself felt about magic.

Back when Hermione was young, her parents had always praised her for her intelligence. Hermione had prided herself on that intelligence, quickly eating up works of famous Muggle literature. She had read War and Peace by the time she was nine. In fact, she had often found that when she went a day without some sort of book, strange things had happened around her—things that had made her only friend, Emily, wary of her. Then, the letter. And everything had changed.

With magic, a whole new door opened. She finally started getting books to read that challenged her young mind. She understood everything in theory, of course, but she was pleasantly surprised to find that she could also execute a few simple spells while she was sitting alone in her compartment on the Hogwarts Express. Immensely pleased, she had continued to work her way through half of the Hogwarts Library—that had been back in the days before she had any friends at all at Hogwarts. Every book was her Bible.

Books' contents were so beautiful, organized in a manner that channeled all these decades of patient magical research into her. How could she not remember all the information books contained? They had been, after all, her closest friends for the first eleven and a half years of her life.

Miranda wrote with fervor and the same enthusiasm that Hermione experienced when she read. The essay was about the slow decline of the first Dark Wizard and the fine line that separated Dark magics from others.

Godric had been patiently sitting behind Hermione, waiting for her to finish reading, for nearly ten minutes. As soon as she rolled up the last scroll, he exclaimed, "How do you get through all that?" Hermione shrugged, and Miranda shot Godric a glare. "What?" he said defensively. "It's not like it's exactly light reading."

"I find it fascinating," Hermione sniffed, handing the last scroll back to Miranda, who gave her a conspiratorial smile.

Godric rolled his eyes. "You bookworms... honestly..."

Hermione shrugged.

"So, Hermione," Godric asked, with a glint of dark mischief in his eyes, "do you do any dueling?"

Godric Gryffindor had famously been the best duelist of all time. Hermione's gaze lit up. "You're famous for dueling!" she exclaimed. "I've read so much about your duels."

Godric put a hand on his chest proudly and looked dramatically into the distance. "I am rather good, yes," he said. "Dueling Club, anyway, meets three nights a week – interested in joining?"

"Oh, Merlin," Hermione said. The last time she had attended a Dueling Club, Gilderoy Lockhart had managed to launch Draco Malfoy's angry snake twenty feet into the air, and Harry had discovered he was a Parselmouth. Great.

"No?" Godric looked a little disappointed.

"Oh, no, no, of course I'd like to!" Hermione answered enthusiastically. She'd get to see Godric Gryffindor in action. Perhaps even Dumbledore, as well.

xXxXxXxXx

After dinner, Hermione stayed in the common room until everyone else had gone to bed. She had every intention of returning to the Restricted Section under the shield of night.

Grabbing a lantern, she set off through the portrait hole. The Fat Lady said, "I hope you know what you're doing, sneaking out this time of night!" Hermione turned back and made a face at her.

Okay. What she needed was any book that mentioned this place. If even one author had theorized about this...island existing, then surely they would also have a theory to get out –either to Life or Death. She couldn't waste time hanging around, not when Harry and Ron's lives were in danger. Harry would surely leave his hiding place, would surely get Ron and go and look for Hermione, risking their safety for a dead girl—would they be able even to find where she was in the Room of Requirement? They wouldn't know to ask for a dead Hermione.

Dead. She was dead.

Hermione swallowed, feeling ashen. If death was just another life, then why did it matter that anyone ever died in the first place? Surely she could find Harry and Ron in death, at the very least – apologize to Ron, tell him she still loved him... A lump stuck in her throat as she pictured his freckled face, a torrent of memories harassing her. She suddenly wished she had the Invisibility Cloak – she could just sit in the library and have a secret cry. But no – it was nearly midnight, and she had a job to do. She had to hunt through all those ominous Restricted books to find the one. Just one. Any one.

The door creaked as it opened. Hermione slipped inside, going back to the end of that bookcase with the stained book. She swore she had seen something with Death in the title very near it, or perhaps around that corner…though Death wasn't exactly a taboo subject in this section—

She backed around the corner again, holding the lantern high so she could see up the rows of books—

And she backed right into someone. The same someone. For the second time that day.

She let out a tiny scream before she turned and saw him. Then she shut her mouth and swallowed her fear, her eyes wide and accusatory. What were the odds? What were the damn odds that he would _still_ be here? After...thirteen or so hours?

"Back so soon?" his soft voice said, a hint of a smile at its edge.

"Why are you still here?" Hermione snapped, her heart pounding. "What do you do, live here?" _Voldemort _would_ live in the Restricted Section..._

He shrugged. "Would you hold it against me?" he asked as Hermione set the lantern down on a bare shelf. "I adore the written word. Hardly a sin."

Then Hermione became very disturbed, because she saw in his face the same greedy, excited look that she so often got when looking at rows and rows of books. "Yes," she muttered. "Books are my favorite thing in the world."

"They are mine, too," said Riddle softly. "My eventual goal is to know... everything."

_Including the secret to eternal life._ Hermione was alarmed that a love for knowledge – her same love for knowledge – could be turned into Voldemort's thirst to defy death, live forever.

She looked around at the dark books. "So did you find what you were looking for?" she asked, gesturing at a dark pile of literature sitting on the ground. She glanced at the cover of one of them and looked away, then did a double take. She could have sworn that it said something along the lines of Upon Pain of Death: Hexes for the Creative, but when she looked back, it read An Ancient History of Dragons. So Riddle cared about who knew that he was a Dark wizard. She knew more than he could have guessed, but apparently he was trying to conceal his image.

Why? He had played the perfect Prefect and Head Boy back in his days at Hogwarts, of course—but those days were over.

"What I was looking for..." Riddle repeated slowly, leaning back against a shelf, observing her. "I wasn't really looking for anything in particular." His body was long and perfectly poised, like a panther's.

"Oh."

There was nothing, really, to say, so Hermione lifted the lantern again and poked through the books on the shelves. She kept her right hand on her wand in her pocket, flicking it slightly to change all the covers of the books she pulled out. Death and its Intricacies turned to Goblin Wars and Prisons; The Quiescence of the Afterlife changed into Atop the Mountain: Advanced Weather Magic for Tactical Warfare. No reason that she shouldn't conceal what she was reading, if he was doing the same.

"Why the sudden desire to get those books of yours?" his voice asked quietly. "A matter of urgency, is it?"

Hermione invented something quickly and turned back to face him. "Well, I—I've been having just a bit of trouble sleeping, so I figured I would just get something to read in the meantime." Riddle nodded, his pale face illuminated softly by the flickering lantern. A few strands of soft, dark hair fell onto his forehead, brushing the top of his serious brow. Hermione bit her tongue, detesting animal instinct. _Voldemort. Seventy-one years old, bald, evil, paper-white skin, red eyes, soulless...not attractive._

"Why can't you sleep?" he asked, and she flinched visibly. If only he would stop asking her these damned questions, perhaps she could regain her composure.

"Nightmares."

She tugged a few more books off the shelf and turned back to him. It was unnerving when he spoke, but even more so when he didn't. "Sorry if I'm disturbing you," he yawned, stretching. Tom Riddle probably wasn't used to apologizing to anyone. _Be normal. Be normal. Act like you don't know him, like he's a nice, normal guy –_

"It's fine," Hermione answered, smiling. She had been told she had a disarming smile, and she hoped that he was disarmed.

"No, really, I'm sorry," he replied, and took a small step towards her. "You must think I'm terribly strange, spending all my time here." Another small step. He was within a foot of her now.

Close proximity. Hermione's breaths quickened, coming shallow and fast, giddy with terror. She couldn't stop herself. Tom Riddle's six-foot-tall body, pale, menacing. Spidery fingers tucking his black hair back into place, then back into his pocket, as if to draw a wand, as if to place it to her throat – the moon echoing through the window in soft radiance, casting an alien glow onto his alabaster skin, dark liquid eyes very close and very near and—_Crucio Crucio CRUCIO—_

"Get away from me!" Hermione burst out. She snatched up her books and fled. _Oh, Merlin. Oh God. You idiot, Hermione Granger, what did you just—_

She very nearly didn't care that she had made herself suspicious. As long as she was out of his presence.

_Deep breaths, Hermione. Deep breaths._

Once back in her dormitory, Hermione looked at her face in the mirror, illuminated by the same moon that had lit that scene in the library, and her breath caught. She looked as if she had seen the Bloody Baron. She was pale and flustered. _Oh God._ Hermione took a deep, calming breath, turned to the books on her bed, and lay down next to them, falling asleep nearly before she could get her head onto her pillow.

_Do not let that happen again._


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks to: M3dUSa, Gonewiththerain09, Vinwin, ClaireReno, 13Nyx13, Lenore-TheCutestLittleDeadGirl8, NougatEvolution, efl614, Galavantian, SlytherinTriumvirate, and ..**

**Speechwriter**

* * *

Hermione surprised herself by waking up on time, just as the sun was rising. She had only had a few hours of sleep as a result of her midnight expedition, but didn't feel tired quite yet. In fact, everyone in the beds around her was still asleep.

She yawned and rolled out of bed, walking down to the common room. It wasn't quite cold, but the fire burning in the hearth still felt nice as she stretched her feet and hands towards it, curling up in a soft red armchair.

As she turned her face into the material, feeling it press against her cheek, she smelled the familiar scent of the Gryffindor common room.

And then, before she could stop it, she was sobbing. Uncontrollably. Desperately.

As if someone were there to witness her weakness, she turned her face into the cushion again, small whimpers buzzing in her nose unpleasantly. It was incredible how quickly every memory could come flooding back—just from smelling the sofa cushions, a comforting blend of ash, oak, and something sweet.

Faces. Endless faces. Her parents, safely obliviated, in Australia—she would never be able to remind them that they had a daughter. The Weasleys, Harry, Luna... and she felt a sudden strange rush of affection for Neville in particular, whom she had always helped through everything. But she needed him, too. She needed all of them more than she had ever known.

A huge sob tore itself from her throat and a hot tear dripped down onto her collarbone. And then a voice interrupted her. "Hermione? Is that you?"

She peered up timidly. It was R.J., rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "What's wrong?"

He sat down on a sofa next to her armchair. She sniffled helplessly, trying to look away to preserve at least some dignity. "I –" she started, but as soon as the word was out, she broke into loud, ugly sobs again, curling up into a ball. "I still ca—can't beli—lieve it," she sobbed out, her breathing raspy and nasal.

R.J. sighed. "Come on, let's walk," he said, standing her up gently. They left the common room, Hermione's body racked with helpless crying.

By the time they had made their way out to the edge of the lake, she was cried out. Her red nose was sore—she kept wiping it with a mild Scourgify charm, which was a little more abrasive than anticipated. They sat on the dewy grass, thick robes keeping them warm in the nippy morning breeze.

"So, tell me what's wrong," R.J. said.

"Oh, dear, it's just," Hermione sniffled lightly, "I miss everyone. I can't think of...of never seeing them again." She waved a hand weakly, staring out into the pinkly rising sun.

"It's tough," agreed R.J. "Would you like to talk about them at all? It'll make you feel better later, I promise."

Hermione looked at him. He was looking out at the lake, his tan skin golden, his tousled dark hair glowing shades of deep brown in the sunrise. "Yeah," she said. "Yeah. I—well, my boyfriend, Ron... I miss him the most. He was tall, skinny, red hair..." She trailed off. Nothing she could say could do justice to what she felt for Ron. Kinship. Need. Desire. Love…

She shook her head and moved on. "He, I, and Harry—we were absolute best friends. Did everything together. Harry was somewhat of a celebrity—me and Ron, we always sort of gave him a hard time for it—" She stopped to give a little chuckle. It seemed so silly now. Everything that wasn't a declaration of love and friendship seemed... unnecessary. Frivolous.

"Ron's family was like a second family for me. I'm Muggle-born, you see, so my parents—they loved me a lot, but they couldn't ever really understand. And then I had to Obliviate them, and then—"

"Wait, you Obliviated your parents? Why?"

Hermione sighed. "There was a rising about ten years after you arrived here. A Dark Wizard. He started killing...he started…" She took a deep breath. "It was an awful time—absolutely horrific, actually, but old protective magic defeated him. Harry Potter's magic. That was my friend. But the Dark Wizard returned, because—"

She broke off. She couldn't tell anyone about the horcruxes. Anyone with horcruxes was here, and if R.J. heard that the person who had killed her was right here in this very castle...

And if Tom Riddle heard that she had information about his future—or, well, his past—he would stop at no means to get it.

"I don't know—something to do with the Philosopher's Stone," Hermione continued hurriedly. "Anyway—he rose again, and we'd been fighting him—me, the whole of Hogwarts, all my friends, everyone I know...and then his followers broke into Hogwarts and I ran to hide in the Room of Requirement and—"

She swallowed and took a shaky breath. "Well, he found me. And killed me. And now I'm here, and my friends are still fighting in this war back home, and there's nothing I can do." A ball of hot anger swelled inside her. "There's nothing I hate more than being helpless. Absolutely nothing."

R.J. turned to her. "Wait, you're actually this age? You're actually only seventeen or eighteen?" he asked, aghast. "That's—that's terrible! This wizard—he killed an eighteen-year-old?"

"He killed everyone," she whispered. "He tried to kill Harry when he was about one year old."

R.J. let out a long, low whistle. "That's... that's terrifying," he murmured. "No wonder you're distressed."

Hermione let out a bitter 'heh.' "Distressed is putting it lightly," she said. "I feel like I'm—like I should just wake up. Like this is some sort of stupid dream I just can't get out of. Except it's more of a nightmare, since..."

She was going to mention Tom Riddle again. _Dammit. I can't make these mistakes._ "Since no one I know is here anymore," she finished.

R.J. patted her shoulder. "Things will look up eventually, Hermione," he reassured her. "Just remember—you'll leave, go to Death—and whatever Death actually is, I'm sure you'll find your friends again. Life's not that cruel."

"I can hardly even remember my last words to my friends," she whispered, drawing her knees to her chest again, leaning her head against R.J.'s solid shoulder, misery dragging at her once more. "I think the last thing I said to Ron was 'Wait a couple minutes.'" She shut her eyes tight. _Wait a couple minutes. _She should have told him she loved him. She should have kissed him goodbye. She should have known, somehow, that when she looked into his eyes, it would be the last time she would do so.

The raw feelings were out in the air—now she would just need time to heal.

"God, but you've been through all this already," Hermione said, realizing how selfish she was being. "What was your life like?" She sat back up straight, and R.J. let his arm drop from her shoulder.

He smiled sadly. "I was engaged," he said quietly. Hermione closed her eyes slowly. "Her name was Renee Sanderson. I met her at my job. We were Unspeakables. Our wedding was going to be in the spring, on the beach, in France." His eyes looked wistful for a second, but the longing look vanished rapidly. "Then the horcrux. I wasn't ever the same, Merlin knows. And then I was here, suddenly—it was like a part of me seeped out and got completely—just—obliterated." He made a violent hand motion.

"Well, I'm here now. I've promised myself that I'll see Renee in death, no matter what it takes. And I've felt remorse ever since I got here, true remorse. Did you know that's the only thing that can fix a broken soul? When my other half gets here, I will be myself again, you see, because I'm already penitent. I'm already—"

He took a breath, blinking away the glimmer in his light blue eyes. "I'm already so sorry."

As Hermione and R.J. headed to breakfast, the familiar bustle of the surrounding students comforted her.

"My parents were both dentists—Muggle tooth doctors, that is. Excellent at what they did, too," Hermione said.

And then, a loud shriek arose from just behind Hermione, scaring the living wits out of her. "Oh! We've got one! We've got one!" The girl behind her tossed her long black hair. Hermione recognized her as the girl who had been sitting next to Riddle that first night, with a pale, pinched face that was not unlike that of Sirius Black.

"Shut up, Araminta," groaned R.J., rubbing his forehead. "We're standing right here. You don't need to shriek."

"Got one what?" Hermione was mystified.

Araminta laughed, a high, nasal sound. "One of _you_!"

R.J. rolled his eyes. "Oh, Merlin, not this again. Come on, Hermione, let's just—"

"No, it's too late," said Araminta, with an angelic sigh. "Everyone knows what you are now."

Hermione's face screwed up in disgust. Surely, not this argument. The same argument she'd undergone all her years at Hogwarts, even though she'd proved over and over and over again that she was worth every bit of the witch she was—but no, there it was again. That foul, disgusting word. That filthy word.

"Mudblood."

R.J.'s eyes narrowed in anger. "Just go back to that snake hole you grew up in, Melly," he snarled. Araminta gave him a very ugly sneer before flouncing off to the Slytherin table.

"That's Araminta Meliflua," R.J. muttered to Hermione as they made their way to Godric and Mina. "She's insane."

Araminta Meliflua—that name sounded awfully familiar. And she looked like Sirius...

"Oh!" Hermione suddenly said, her eyes round with realization. "Back on Earth she tried to get a piece of legislation drafted that would make hunting Muggles legal!"

R.J. nodded. "Sounds like her." The pair sat down at the table.

"Soooo," said Godric, "where were you two all morning?" He made an obvious wink at R.J.

R.J. made an obvious wink back. "Well, you know, we were 'having a psychological discussion about our past lives', if you know what I mean."

"Oh, that's what the kids are calling it these days?" Mina said. "They get more creative with these euphemisms every year. Hey, Miranda, you'd better add that to your essay-novel-thing."

Miranda blew her light brown hair out of her eyes. "Mina, I've told you a million times," she said in exasperation, "the essay is about the decline of wizardry into the Dark Arts, not about euphemisms or dueling or pumpkins or hair dyes or any of the other bizarre things you seem to think I'd possibly even want to write about—"

"Yeah, yeah," Mina said, waving a hand.

Godric said, "So, what did Melly want from you, Hermione?"

"Oh, she was just being nasty," Hermione said quietly.

R.J. sighed. "Hermione's being stoic. Araminta called her a Mudblood." All other activity within a few feet ceased. There was an incredibly loud silence. Hermione's face flushed bright red in embarrassment. _I shouldn't be embarrassed about who I am,_ she thought, and sat up a little straighter instead.

"Merlin, I hate that!" said Mina. "My grandfather was Muggle-born, and Melly doesn't even let me live _that_ down."

"You're telling me," Hermione muttered, moving her eggs around her plate halfheartedly. "Why do you call her Melly?"

"She detests it," chuckled Godric. "It's about the only thing we can do that's as petty as the insults she throws at people."

Hermione rolled her eyes. She had encountered enough bitter people in her life that were unpleasant to her simply because they were prejudiced. This Araminta person was just one more. Nothing to be concerned about, really.

"So, what are you all doing today?" she asked the table at large. She was still getting used to the bewildering lack of classes.

"Dueling club tonight," cheered Godric, thrusting a fork triumphantly into the air. A bit of sausage detached itself from the end and plopped unappealingly into the gravy in front of them.

Mina snorted. "I might stay in the common room today. Bug the pants off Mirandy here." She elbowed Miranda, who gave her a glare, deterred only by Mina's huge smile.

"God forbid," Miranda muttered.

"I'm going to go up to the infirmary to visit Annabella Wespurt. One of the many casualties of _your_ last Quidditch match," R.J. said pointedly to Godric.

Godric threw up his hands in defense. "Hey, it wasn't _my_ fault she decided to fall off her broom. Malfoy was the one who hexed her." Hermione looked over at the Slytherins. Abraxas Malfoy was both tall and broad, with that characteristic white-blond hair. He was handsome, in a very masculine way, and Riddle, who was to his left once more, looked slim in comparison.

Hermione observed as Araminta clutched onto Riddle's left arm. She seemed to be pouting at him, begging him to do something or other. A smirk quirked the edge of Hermione's mouth unintentionally. Merlin, she was draping herself all over him.

Riddle politely extracted himself from her grip, sighing and seeming to relent.

He took out a light wand—yew wood, if Hermione recalled correctly—and flicked it once, lazily, with a look of complete boredom on his face. The huge silver platter in front of them, stacked with multitudes of pancakes, turned quickly into a repulsive green garden snake. Another flick of the wand, and it was back to normal.

Hermione wasn't impressed. Although Araminta may have been awed by Riddle's parlor tricks, Hermione had seen the likes of that at the dinner table every day with Tonks, Bill, a few of the more cheerful members of the Order—hell, Hermione herself had even joined in every once in a while. Transfiguration in and of itself had ceased to be a challenge at all. While Araminta clutched at Riddle's shoulder like some sort of pallid leech, Hermione's mouth quivered, dangerously close to laughter. She managed to contain it to a sarcastic grin instead, and as Riddle's eyes suddenly flickered up and met hers, she couldn't look away. He raised his dark eyebrow, managing to inject complete exasperation into that one movement. Then they looked away simultaneously. Hermione diverted her gaze down onto her breakfast, chewing quietly, feeling disturbed. The trading of glances was something that one did with one's friends and acquaintances. Not with one's murderer.

Shaking her head slightly, getting rid of the image of Riddle, Hermione stood and followed Mina, who was heading back to the common room.

Hermione turned at the Grand Staircase, walking outside into the glorious sunlight. _I could get used to this weather._

The glowing emerald grass was soft under her feet as Hermione made her way down to the lake. She swore she could see the Giant Squid skimming along beneath the surface.

She sprawled out on the grass and enjoyed the light breeze draping its cool fingers over her skin. The very blue, very beautiful sky had echoes of lighter shades within it, a very deep illusion. Staring into it, Hermione could almost convince herself that she was falling upwards, into it, back into the elusive real world. The sun seemed crystallized, not bright enough to hurt, its rays staying static in the sky. Hermione closed her eyes.

Then, after Merlin knew how long it was—hours?—her robes moved slightly and involuntarily.

She frowned and rubbed at the spot that had moved—her pocket.

Her wand pocket. Only—where was her wand? Had it just fallen of its own volition?

Hermione sighed and opened her eyes, having only time to see the bottom of a shoe before it sped towards her face. Her eyes widened and she rolled frantically out of the way, scrambling to her feet. Her heart sprang into a sprint. Araminta Meliflua stood in front of her, flanked by a very pretty girl and a very hideous boy. Both wore Slytherin robes, and the boy's foot stomped with a loud 'thud' firmly onto the grass where Hermione's head had just been. Hermione's eyes flew to Araminta's hands. They twirled Hermione's wand slowly.

Hermione's mind raced with ideas. Run? Fight? Well, no, fighting would be stupid, not without a wand... Wandless magic—Hermione wasn't overly familiar with it. Professor Dumbledore had done it a few times, various Death Eaters had performed wandless magic—Harry had even told her about Quirrell doing it, although Quirrell wasn't a particularly impressive wizard.

Her wand was only three feet from her. Couldn't she just—

_Accio!_ Hermione crooked a finger. Araminta's eyes widened as Hermione's wand attempted to struggle from her fingers, but she just tightened her grip and gave a grim smile. "Well, well," she laughed, "Mudblood's got a few tricks up her sleeve!"

She turned and threw Hermione's wand far into the grass, a good twenty feet away. Hermione's heart sank. She couldn't even see it. When she tried a wandless _Accio_ again, nothing at all happened.

And then, suddenly, she was in excruciating pain. The pretty blonde girl had an unexpectedly malicious smile on her face and had drawn her wand, forcing Hermione to her knees in front of the lake. And then the boy grabbed the back of Hermione's head with a big, rough hand, and thrust it into the shimmering lake water.

As her head broke the surface, Hermione was dimly aware of a lot of things of which she was usually unaware. How dry her feet were. How full of blood her head was, making her ears hot and red under the water. The chaos of bubbles bursting from her mouth, and then her head was being yanked up, and Araminta was spitting insults again, but Hermione seemed only to be able to see vivid images—the crystal specks of water being coughed from her mouth, the clear water beside her, the blue sky far above, the boy's red, piggy face, contorted in anger—

And then underwater again. Again and again and again, wreaking havoc on her lungs—it felt as if she were drowning, and her knees gave way and she thrashed on her stomach, kicking out with her legs, hoping for her feet to connect with some part of the boy so she could breathe—and again, just before she thought she would breathe in a lungful of lake, her head was let up again.

All the strength drained from her body as she sucked in a deep breath. She let herself go limp, and the big hand on her head abruptly smashed her face into the dirt. Stars exploded behind Hermione's eyes as incredible pain cracked through her nose and spiraled through her face, sending waves of hurt down her body. Hot blood trickled gently from her nose down to her lips, and the hand holding her let go. Hermione's forehead slipped into the shallows, cool water bathing her forehead as the iron tang of her blood crept into her mouth.

She flipped over, immense pain in the back of her neck, oxygen deprivation flooding all her muscles with exhaustion.

Araminta beckoned to the other two. They shot twin glances to either side and hurried back up to the castle.

"Oh..." Hermione said softly to the open air, and then her body was racked with coughs. She spat up some lake water, which, although it shone welcomingly and was far less murky than in real life, tasted awful.

Hermione crawled over to her wand, thanking her lucky stars that Araminta hadn't decided to toss it in the lake instead. Hermione held her wand shakily up to her face. "Episkey," she said softly, and felt a quick freezing sensation as her nose clicked back into place. Then, "Scourgify," and the blood was siphoned off her face into the air.

Hermione groaned. She peered into the lake, examining her miserable reflection. Broken noses often gave people two black eyes, and though she'd caught the break fairly early, there was already some mild bruising around her eye sockets. As if she needed to look any worse.

She cast a glamour to conceal the black eyes and stood up, her muscles aching. She brushed off her robes and winced as she took a step.

Tears came to her eyes, and she leaned against a tree that spread its boughs over the lake. She remembered when she had cried over Ron, and Harry had comforted her; she remembered when Dumbledore had died and Ron had held her hand. Made her feel better, as only best friends could.

She didn't feel like that would be possible this time. _At some point, I'm going to have to learn how to stand alone._ So she straightened up, wiped the unshed tears, took in a deep breath, and strode off to the castle. Something inside her fortified itself. She would not deign to cry again, would not dishonor the strength she knew she had by floundering around like a child. Another deep breath, another step, one after the other, and slowly her tense muscles relaxed a little and stopped hurting, and a bit of a smile spread over her face in open defiance of what Araminta had just done.

The Prefects' bathroom was her first stop. She still had dirt all over her hands, and lake water made her hair suspiciously stringy and repulsive. Staying relatively under the radar, Hermione crept up to the fifth floor, finding the statue of Boris the Bewildered. The fourth door to the left was the Prefects' bathroom—but Hermione didn't know if the password had changed since her sixth year. She said tentatively, "Oak whisper," but nothing happened.

Hermione cursed under her breath, looking up and down the corridor as if someone would just appear and tell her the password inside. Just as she looked back at the door, it creaked open. Hermione leapt behind it as it swung open.

The person who came out of it—a short girl with red hair—stormed off in the opposite direction without casting a glance back. Hermione dashed around the door and inside with a sigh of relief. The door clicked shut behind her, and Hermione looked around the familiar contours of the Prefects' Bathroom.

She locked the door behind her and strode to the voluminous bath, turning on tap after tap. The bath filled with surprising speed, filling the air with gentle spirals of sweet-smelling steam.

Hermione dipped her foot into the hot water and sighed as she slid in, leaving her robes on the side of the bath. The heat loosened her tense muscles and she lay her head back on the side of the pool-like bath, sitting on the ledge below the surface.

She twisted a tap absentmindedly and bubbles started to dance across the surface of the water. Hermione groped for her wand in her robe pocket. Right then, she couldn't think of a better use for magic than for it to fix all the aches on her body, untangle her hair, and relax her before she had to face people once more.

Removing the glamour she had cast on her face, Hermione let her wand clatter back onto the tile and slid her head under the water. It was dark and very quiet as she shut her eyes. Her fingers rubbed gently over her face, removing the dirt, removing leftover blood from her nose, and her hair floated out in a wavy halo from her pale face.

_Plan._ She needed a plan.

Her head broke the surface gently, and Hermione sat and thought for a long time. _I'll go back to the common room. I'll read those books—hopefully there'll be something in there about, well, something—and then I'll have dinner. No one will suspect a thing._

Why didn't she want anyone to suspect a thing? Strange thing to want, Hermione mused. Her mind flickered back to Umbridge, how Harry had concealed his torture from her, from Ron.

This was different, though. She didn't want to be comforted because she didn't want to get attached to anyone in this place, not if she was going to get out as fast as possible. She didn't want to even associate herself too much with anyone here, so as not to get too fond.

That was a bit of a high goal, though. Already Mina's attitude, R.J.'s kindness, Godric's blustery scoffing, and Miranda's quiet genius were growing on her. The best she could do was focus on getting the most she could out of being here and try to figure out a way to leave before her ties to life faded.

Her fingers were wrinkled, like those of an old woman. Hermione took a couple of deep breaths, letting the smell soothe and calm her, before lifting herself from the bath. _Evanesco,_ she thought, flicking her wand, and the bathwater vanished. She dressed herself.

The mermaid flounced around in her window. "Would you happen to know the password to this place?" Hermione asked her, trying to be as civil as possible to the vapid mermaid.

She looked down at Hermione, sniffed slightly, and said, "Well, if you'd like to know, you'd better ask one of your friends, hadn't you?"

Hermione rolled her eyes and slammed the door behind her.

_Act natural._

"Hermione! I haven't seen you all day," Miranda greeted warmly as Hermione walked into the common room. There were only a few people there—Albus, Miranda, Godric, and R.J., and only two more, neither of whom Hermione knew.

Hermione smiled. "I know. I was relaxing by the lake. I can't believe it's always so nice outside here."

"One of the many upsides of being dead," Godric called from the sofa with a lazy grin. Hermione glared at him.

"That's not funny, Godric," she chided. "Just because we've been killed doesn't mean that we should joke about that kind of—"

"Oh, come on, lighten up, Hermione," Godric interrupted with a wave of his wand. The chair opposite him turned into a small tiger, which groomed itself quietly.

Lighten up, Hermione. _Merlin, how many times have I heard those words?_ She walked over to the tiger and rapped it with her wand. It transformed back into an armchair, into which she sat with a groan, stretching out. Godric and R.J. sat on the sofa opposite her, R.J. reading Hogwarts: A History and Godric boredly Transfiguring everything in sight.

"Hey, listen to this," laughed R.J.'s low voice. "'Godric Gryffindor was not known particularly for intelligence, loyalty, or cunning, but had a brash, impulsive personality characteristic of pure bravery.' That sounds exactly like you, Godric. Not much intelligence."

Godric Transfigured Hogwarts: A History into a large ferret. R.J. yelled in surprise and flung the ferret at Godric in shock. Hermione felt a genuine laugh rising in her throat, buoying her up with unexpected happiness. She broke into peals of merry laughter, which was surprisingly infectious. Still laughing, she reverted the book to its original state. _Last time I saw something Transfigured into a ferret..._

"You've got a nice laugh, Hermione," Godric commented.

"Yeah," R.J. agreed. "Very—" He paused and frowned. "What's that?" He pointed at Hermione.

"What, my face?" Hermione asked sarcastically.

"No, _that_." R.J. stood up and walked over to her. "That, on your robe. Is that—is that blood?"

Hermione looked down. How had she not noticed it? Red stained her clothes, clearly obvious on the light edging of the robe right under her chin. R.J. touched the spot. His finger came away red.

Godric's eyes widened in surprise. "What have you—"

"What is this?" R.J. asked.

Hermione was an absolutely terrible liar, especially to people she liked. "Well, er, I—that is, I was—I was by the lake, and I tripped, and—"

"Oh, don't give me that," Godric scoffed. "What happened?"

Hermione looked at their concerned faces. Even Miranda had stopped writing to peer over at them curiously. "Are you okay?" Miranda called from her chair.

This was exactly what she had wanted to avoid.


	4. Chapter 4

**Thanks to:**

**NougatEvolution, Galavantian, ClaireReno, Jude, Lenore-TheCuteLittleDeadGirl8, M3dUSa, Laurie Jupiter, and Vinwin.**

**Speechwriter**

* * *

Hermione sighed and started to recount the story. The room was intensely and uncomfortably quiet.

"I wanted to relax by the lake. My eyes were shut, I thought I felt my wand do something funny, so I opened my eyes and someone tried to step on my face. Onto my face. I rolled out of the way, stood up, and it was Araminta—"

"Wait, what about Araminta?" said a very puzzled Mina, who had just walked downstairs and found a silent common room listening to Hermione.

"Shush, Filemina," hissed Miranda with unexpected fervor, a venomous look in her eye. It was obvious she was no great admirer of Araminta either.

Hermione looked around. All eyes snapped back to her, and she sighed and continued. "Well, Araminta and two of her friends, this sort of pretty short blonde girl and this huge, ugly guy... they were there, and Araminta had taken my wand, and like an idiot I let her throw it."

She wasn't sure how to say the next part without overdramatizing it. "And then the boy started forcing my head underwater. Dunking it, that is. Half-drowning me. And Araminta was saying all this idiotic, irrational anti-Muggle stuff, and then they broke my nose and left."

She took a deep breath, casting a nervous glance at everyone. R.J., Godric and Mina looked positively murderous. Miranda looked stricken.

"Well, then I fixed my nose, went upstairs, cleaned myself up a little bit, you know, got everything off my face, took a bath, and I assumed everything was going to be okay."

"Everything is NOT okay!" said Mina loudly. "That girl has it coming, I swear -"

Miranda's lips tightened. "She can't just do things like that."

R.J. and Godric just exchanged glares, and then looked back to Hermione.

When R.J. spoke, everyone fell quiet again. "We're going to talk to someone about this. The head of that little gang of Araminta's, whether that's Malfoy or whoever. This has got to stop. She's got this harebrained idea that Muggleborn wizards need to be punished for being born, and it's dangerous. Come on, Godric, we need to find one of those Slytherins and—"

"No!" Hermione interrupted, terrified by the idea that they might possibly talk to Tom Riddle about her. That could not happen. No. Absolutely, positively not. "No," she repeated quietly, with a nervous smile. "Don't worry about it. It's in the past, and—well, I'm not worried about Araminta. She clearly isn't the brightest bulb in the box."

"The brightest what in the box?" Godric asked, confused.

"Never mind. I don't want to have to make a big deal out of this one time. Now that she's finished with her power trip, hopefully she'll just leave me alone. If it happens again... feel free to – I don't know, do something, but don't... not now. Please?"

She looked very tired in the firelight. R.J. sighed. "Okay, but if anything else like this happens, please don't try to cover it up," he said, his blue eyes worried.

Hermione smiled. "Got it."

Mina gave her a tight hug, then clapped her on the shoulder. "Come on, let's go get some dinner," she said briskly. "I'll try not to glare at Minty Mell too much."

Hermione spluttered at the preposterous nickname. She didn't really feel like eating much at all – a residual watery feeling was present in most of her body.

"Oh, actually, I'll catch up with you in a few minutes," Hermione said. "I have to change my robes."

"Right," said Godric. "We'll see you in the Great Hall, yeah?"

Hermione nodded and retreated up the steps to the dormitory, flinging herself on her bed in exhaustion. _That was better handled than I anticipated,_ she thought, and changed into another set of robes, one of many that were hanging in the cupboard.

She picked up one of her books – The Quiescence of the Afterlife – and, tucking it into her pocket, bustled down the steps.

The Grand Staircase was moving rather more than usual. Hermione mistakenly got off on the second floor.

Oh well – she could use the small spiral staircase behind that one tapestry of Doris the Desperate. Hermione poked her face behind it and grinned. Hogwarts and its secret passages never failed her.

She stepped cautiously behind the tapestry and pulled it back into place behind her. There was a short tunnel before the staircase, and she could hear her footsteps echoing around her.

Then, as she stepped out of the round end of the tunnel into a circular staircase, a flurry of dark robe burst out of nowhere, dark robe and heavy breath. Before she could scream, there was a warm, dry hand firmly over her mouth and she was being backed into the tunnel. Her eyes found purchase on the face of Tom Riddle in horror. She made a muffled noise of alarm. _What? Why is he here? Why is he why is he why is he_

Her back met the curved stone wall. Riddle was so close that she was practically hyperventilating. _No. Get off me. Get OFF me._

Her hand scrabbled in her pocket for her wand. _Depulso!_ She drew her wand from her pocket and jabbed it right into Riddle's stomach. He flew back into the stone wall opposite her, obviously not having guessed that she might attempt to hex him – but quicker than she could think, his wand was in his hand, and with a disturbingly gentle wave, her arms were spread on either side of her, pinned to the wall. _Stupid, to think I could get rid of Lord Voldemort with a child's spell!_

And then he was close again, so close she could smell the smell of him, the sweet, haunting smell of him. He let out a long sigh as her breathing calmed. "Don't run, please, and don't hex me again," he continued, and with a lazy movement of the wand in his hand, she was unpinned from the wall. She stood, her eyes fixed on the only possible means of egress.

Hermione swallowed. Why did she have to run into Riddle when there was no one around to hear her hypothetical screams of pain? She couldn't get away – and he was obviously abandoning his angelic cover, seeing as he had accosted her like this. And that was another question – how had he known she would be here? She was only here because she had gotten off on the wrong floor, and there was no way he could have ensured that happening. Unless he had charmed the staircases, which was implausible at best—that was Founders magic, magic that had been in place for hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of years –

She took a deep breath and looked up into his face. His dark hair was out of its usual place, his nearly-black eyes deeper and calmer than ever. His tongue ran lightly over his lips, and Hermione felt a jolt of—_something—_attack her stomach, drying her mouth up like paper. _Sin is always beautiful._

He surprised her by putting his wand back in his pocket. "Now," he said, his deadly quiet voice chasing shivers down Hermione's spine, "I just wanted to ask you a couple of things."

"What?" Hermione asked impatiently, as if this were just an annoying detour. _You are innocent. You know nothing about Tom Riddle. You are composed._

Riddle smiled. That smile made Hermione's throat tighten. "First of all, why are you so terrified of me?"

"Terrified of you?" Hermione said, like it was a ridiculous notion that should not be entertained instead of the blatant truth.

"Yes."

Hermione shrugged, thinking quickly. "I—I'm easily intimidated."

"You don't seem like the type," he replied, moving a little closer to her. She pressed back against the wall.

"Why, because I'm stubborn and sarcastic?" she said softly, realizing that her legs were practically melting out from under her. There seemed to be an electrostatic shock in the small space between her and Riddle, making her unbelievably aware of his every movement. In the relative darkness of the tunnel, shadows took his handsome face and transformed it into something dark and terrifying.

"Exactly," he murmured, his dark eyes moving down her face. "So, why would I intimidate you?"

The slow burn of his voice took the ground out from under Hermione's rationality with astounding surety. Well, there was a very obvious answer to that question, one that he was very clearly entertaining with that physical presence he had. _Arrogant bastard knows he's attractive—_

Hermione's hazel eyes traveled to Riddle's chest, where the Slytherin crest dwelled, and back up to his face. _Merlin, forgive me,_ she thought, _but there's not another way to explain to him why I'm intimidated if it's not this._

"Well," she muttered, "you've probably figured that out yourself." Her eyes held contact with his, and her heart thudded so loudly that he could probably hear it.

His tall, slim figure leaned forward, eyes betraying a spark of – something. Hermione shrank back against the wall as if there were a way she could sink into it, but no such happy ability appeared. His right hand pressed itself against the stone to the right of her face, and with agonizing, excruciating slowness, Riddle leaned in and whispered in her left ear. _What—the hell—is happening— _She was trapped between his arm and his head, and as she turned her face just a little to the left, she could see the back of his head, the curve of his neck, the softness of his dark hair.

"Yes, I've figured something out," he whispered, and her skin crawled. She could swear to God she _heard_ him smile, even as his breath brushed the side of her ear, even as the very edge of his pale face brushed against her cheek, so softly that it nearly hurt. _Oh, dear Lord._

She never thought she could simultaneously feel so many starkly different feelings – absolute repulsion; utter terror; deep desire that should have been inadmissible.

He didn't pull away—which might have been good, because she might have fallen over. One of his long legs brushed against hers, sending spikes of feeling through her jumpy nerves, and he said, "Intimidation befits you."

Hermione swallowed and closed her eyes, wishing it would stop, wishing _he_ would stop.

Her wish came true. All of a sudden, he was a few feet away again, and Hermione's eyes opened. She drew in a deep, shuddering breath. He was talking again, casually, as if nothing had happened at all, but she felt utterly freed with the buffer of several feet around her, like the air was cleaner now that he was over there instead of pressed up against her—

"Second of all, I wanted to ask why you didn't scream out for help this afternoon," he said smoothly.

Hermione's mind changed gears in a split second. _What?_ Her face was that of shock, and suddenly anger was streaming through her veins – hot, insolent rage. "You – you _saw_ that? You _saw_ them doing that to me and you didn't do anything?"

He shrugged lazily. "I suppose it just didn't occur to me to betray my Housemates," he said. His eyes, once more, were completely unreadable. "Perhaps if I'd heard a cry for help, I would have helped."

"I thought I was alone, you dimwit!" shot back Hermione. It was stupid to imply that Voldemort would ever help anybody besides himself, but just to stand there and see someone nearly drown her...

"And you weren't going to tell anyone about it, either," Riddle continued musing, as if he were thinking aloud. "Yes, I saw you cleaning yourself up. Presumably went and took a bath afterwards, too, by the... smell of you. Why is that?"

"Why is _what_?" Hermione asked, anger flushing her face bright red.

"Why would you not want to tell your friends about being tortured nearly to the point of drowning?"

Hermione was visibly flustered, although she was practically telling the truth now, Merlin knew why. "I don't know! I just—I didn't see why I needed to tell them, and make them worry about something that didn't matter, that's all!"

Riddle inclined his head, smiling once again. "Exactly what I would have done."

_Great. I'm like Voldemort._

"Just one more thing," he started, but Hermione held up a finger.

"No, no, you wait a second," she ordered with far more confidence than she actually had. "Why should I tell you anything about myself? All I know about you is that I found you sitting in the Restricted Section for, what, twelve hours, and now you've attacked me in a tunnel where no one could possibly see or hear us." Hermione paused, clenching her teeth and fists to keep the shaking out of her voice. "You didn't even help me when I could have drowned. Why should I say anything to you? Ever? Give me one reason. Just one."

Riddle shrugged. "Because you want to?"

Hermione's mouth quirked in amusement. "No. I really don't. You're wrong."

He opened his mouth, but she continued, "Wrong, Tom Marvolo Riddle. I don't want to answer any of your questions, and I certainly don't have to." Then a flash of dangerous anger sprang up in his eyes, and Hermione was instantly terrified again. "I'm leaving," she whispered, and before he could say anything further, she hurried out of the tunnel and down the steps.

She realized that she'd used his middle name as she fled. _I'm dead. _Perhaps more disturbing than his silent but understood _we'll-meet-again_ was the knowledge that he could have stopped her from leaving, likely forever.

"Well, that was an awfully long changing session," commented Godric, shoveling food into his mouth as Hermione sat down.

"Just cleaned up a little, too," said Hermione primly, helping herself to potatoes. She noticed Riddle entering the Great Hall and stared pointedly at her plate.

"So! Dueling Club," Mina announced to the table at large. "Who's showing up? Albus, are you in? I know you like your fancy spellwork every once in a while."

Dumbledore smiled gently, running a hand through his auburn hair. "No, Mina, I think my dueling days are pretty much over. Thank you for thinking of me, though." And only as he returned to his book did Hermione realize with absolute horror that she was no longer in possession of her own book.

_Shit!_

How—she couldn't remember it falling out of her pocket, although when she thought back, she couldn't remember much besides the six-inches-away burning sensation of Tom Riddle's presence.

No, no, no. That book was important. That book was vital. And, most of all, that book could _not_ be seen by anyone except her, _especially_ by the Dark Lord, who might be curious about why she was reading about The Quiescence of the Afterlife. On top of randomly fleeing him at every opportunity. And knowing his middle name.

Her heart racing, she looked up and across the table to where the Slytherins sat. Riddle was, as usual, at the heart of their group, facing her.

His eyes met hers in an icy rush, and he very pointedly placed a small, dark book beside his plate, raising his eyebrows. There was a dispassionate note in his eyes. He was not happy at all that she had deserted his interrogation; Hermione could tell that much. She looked away and back at Godric, who was explaining some of the finer techniques he liked to use for various charms, and she attempted to listen, attempted to ignore the cold dread that was trickling down her back.

As she looked back at the Slytherin table, R.J. noticed where her gaze was straying. "You okay, Hermione?" he said, and suddenly, everyone else was quiet, too.

Miranda turned around to look at the Slytherins. "I'd like to curse the hair off Araminta," she muttered viciously.

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "Whoa, hold on," she laughed nervously. "Yeah, I'm fine. I just -"

"Slytherins," Godric muttered, eating furiously, with furtive glances at the Slytherin table. "After my so-called _best friend _went all Muggle-hating psychotic, it just seems like everyone who gets Sorted into that house is out to get someone."

Hermione sighed. Of course—Salazar and Godric had used to be best friends. She wondered how that had ever worked, observing Godric's playful attitude and Salazar's sullen sliminess.

Her friends didn't even know that she had pretty much moved the Araminta issue from her mind completely in favor of the much bigger problem of Tom Riddle.

"They're all terrible," R.J. sighed. "Dark, the whole lot of them. Except maybe that Riddle guy – he's never seemed like a particularly bad sort." The name sounded like a bad dream dropping from R.J.'s lips. Oh, the irony—not a bad sort...? _Please, please, PLEASE not this topic of conversation._

Godric frowned. "Actually, yeah, I've always sort of wondered why Riddle is even in Slytherin. He's sort of quiet... brilliant, though; Rowena and I have been wondering why he's not in Ravenclaw."

Mina shrugged, casting a look at Riddle. "You know, it's funny, about Riddle, but I feel like he's actually the head of that stupid little gang of Slytherins. It's just... the way they treat him. Maybe it's because he's the only one out of the whole lot that's not completely rotten."

Albus made a quiet noise that did not go unnoticed by Hermione. _Of course – Albus Dumbledore was the only one who mistrusted Riddle from the start._

There was a contemplative silence for a second before Godric resumed bombastically reenacting a duel he claimed he had had with a troll. _A mountain troll, perhaps...?_

Hermione glanced at the Slytherins one last time. Riddle's eyes were on her, and even as she looked away, she could feel that they were still watching her, all the way until she left.

* * *

"Okay, so, what are the rules for Dueling Club?" Hermione asked Godric nervously as they walked back down to the Great Hall.

Godric shrugged. "I mean, there aren't many." This didn't reassure Hermione at all. "One: if someone gets challenged, someone else can accept the challenge for them and duel the challenger instead. Called cutting in. Two: if you get challenged to a duel and no one offers to cut in, you have to accept. Three: when you can't cast a spell anymore, the duel is considered over. Four: all wounds will be treated by Mungo and Jared up in the Infirmary. That's about it."

Hermione considered for a while. "So, essentially, by walking into the Great Hall, I'm agreeing to duel any nutter who happens to challenge me?"

Her friend nodded in response.

Hermione groaned. "Hold on, wait. Did you say Mungo? As in Mungo Bonham?"

"Yeah. Do you know him?"

Hermione shook her head. "It's just – well, he has the only famous wizard hospital in London – St. Mungo's, you know."

Godric laughed. "Oh, he's a saint? Lucky git."

"Who was the other one?" Hermione asked.

"Jared Pippin. He's big into potions, and for the last few years he's been experimenting a lot with healing potions. It's good stuff. Never seen anything like it," Godric said. "Oh, look, someone's already set up... that's strange..."

There weren't many people in the Great Hall yet—a few Ravenclaws, a single Hufflepuff, and a couple Slytherins. The House tables had been stacked against the walls. A raised rectangle of stone, about twenty feet long sat in the middle of the Great Hall, and it was around it that most of the people were clustered.

"We've got ten minutes or so," Godric said. "Mina and R.J. should be here soon."

Over the next ten minutes, the Great Hall filled up slowly, until there were about fifty people around the platform. Hermione was glad to see that Araminta and her two friends were absent. "Hermione!" Mina said, approaching her and Godric, R.J. in tow. "Planning to duel anyone?"

Hermione shrugged. "I mean, if someone really wants to duel me, I'm sure I won't disappoint."

This was a bit of an understatement. Hermione's magical talent had transformed into a whole other beast in the months that she had spent in Hogwarts attempting to repulse the Death Eaters. She had refused point-blank to dabble in the Dark Arts, but she had found a few books that outlined more…detailed hexes. She had used quite a few of them, too, in defense of her life. Offensive magic had started coming as easily to her as a simple Expelliarmus.

Godric grinned, and his keen green eyes fixed upon a Slytherin boy on the other side of the platform. "Oh, I can't wait to challenge Vaisey. He keeps levitating frogs into my dormitory."

Hermione's nose wrinkled in disgust. "So, who's in charge of all this?"

Mina laughed.

Godric said, "I am." He took out his wand, a simple blackthorn rod, and flicked it. The doors of the Great Hall slammed shut, the noise resounding powerfully off the curved stone walls. Everyone instantly fell as silent as if they had been charmed to do so.

"Dueling Club!" Gryffindor announced, leaping up onto the stone platform. "Anybody fancy the first duel tonight? Anyone?"

There was deathly silence. A grin spread across Godric's face. "In that case..." he said, "Vaisey, why don't you get on up here and show me what you can do?"

There was a loud cheer from the audience. They all backed away as Vaisey climbed up onto the platform, looking singularly uneasy. He had light brown hair and tanned skin, and his tall body held itself awkwardly, as if he had been injured recently.

Godric backed down to one end of the platform, looking confident and at ease. Vaisey stood at the other, taking out his spindly wand from his pocket and raising it slowly. Hermione watched with bated breath. _I can't believe I'm about to see Godric Gryffindor duel._

And then, with a wave of Vaisey's wand, the duel began.

Hermione was captivated by the fury and power with which Godric dueled. It was all non-verbal, of course, but the results were magnificent to watch. First, a jet of purple sparks issued from Vaisey's wand, which were casually transformed by Godric into a deflating balloon. The Gryffindors laughed and cheered, and Godric gave his first attack, a complicated twist of the blackthorn wand that issued a blinding ray of blue light. Vaisey ducked and shot a curse across the ground at Godric, making the sturdy stone crack and char underneath it. Godric thrust his wand downwards at the curse, and it exploded into a shower of brilliantly white snow.

Godric raised his hand and jabbed his wand at the snow. It swelled into a colossal wave of black, fuzzy mist which rolled across the platform towards Vaisey. Vaisey waved his wand, but nothing happened. Hermione recognized a failed _Protego_ and shook her head. She cringed as the mist engulfed Vaisey.

When it cleared, he lay on the ground, seemingly unconscious. It was over as quickly as it had begun. Godric's eyes made their way to his friends in the crowd and he flashed a cocky grin. The audience applauded, a cheer rising from the Gryffindors.

Godric hopped off the platform, cracking his knuckles. "Well, that was painfully easy," he commented. Hermione saw two of Vaisey's friends lifting his unconscious body off the platform and carrying him quickly out of the Great Hall.

Hermione gave Godric a reproachful stare. "Was that Infuscus hex _really_ necessary?"

Godric looked a little surprised. "Well, don't we know our hexes," he laughed. "And yes, it was necessary. You'd think so, if you woke up with a bloody frog sitting on your mouth two days in a row."

Hermione cringed, and opened her mouth to reply, but before she could, she heard her name being spoken. Mina elbowed her. "You just got challenged," she hissed.

Her head whipped around to the platform, where Tom Riddle was standing calmly, his arms crossed loosely and a lazy smile playing on his mouth.

R.J. frowned. "You want me to cut in?" he muttered. "Riddle's only ever dueled once, and it was damn scary."

Hermione shook her head. She wouldn't knowingly let any of her friends go up against Lord Voldemort, no matter what the consequences were for her. But, Merlin, at the same time…this was an absolutely terrible idea.

She felt her legs walk towards the platform, even though her every instinct begged her not to, pleaded with her to let anyone besides her do this—but before she knew it she was standing opposite Tom Riddle, his eyes boring into her, and both their wands were up, and there was a deathly hush.

_Ligora!_ She flicked her wand, sending the simple binding hex at Riddle, wondering what he would do, and he didn't disappoint. Deflecting her hex before it had even gotten halfway to him, he wove his wand through the air, his face betraying no hint of emotion. Red fire flickered from his wand tip towards her. Hermione recognized quite a powerful curse and instantly conjured a counterjinx. _Duro_!

The red flames solidified into harmless stone and clattered to the ground. _Vivifica! _Hermione whirled her wand at the stone flames, and they sprang up into a marble lion, bounding across the platform towards Riddle. With a jab of his wand, the stone lion erupted into tiny fragments of rock which whizzed towards Hermione.

_Protego –_

_ Diakopta –_

The curse spun towards Riddle as the stone fragments exploded into dust all around her. Riddle's face finally showed the slightest hint of concentration—his jaw muscles tightened as he reflected the cutting curse with a _Subligo_ jinx, which tied her own curse to a far more powerful one. Hermione didn't even recognize the wand movement, and she flung herself to the floor. She could smell her hair burning slightly as the spell rocketed over her.

Leaping back to her feet, she flicked her wand, her hands shaking desperately. _Perustero!_ A jet of green fire blasted from her wand, swelling into an inferno as it approached Riddle. She watched disbelievingly as he slowly waved his wand sucked the fire into his wand-tip.

Then the fire blasted itself out of his wand again, ten times more powerful, colored a deep gold. Hermione brought up her wand just in time to create a thick grey shield. The fire slammed into the shield, knocking Hermione back a couple steps, but she caught herself, disassembled the shield, and aimed her wand over her head at Riddle. Her next jinx had taken a while to learn, but maybe it could slip past his defense...

_Stupefy! Exequora!_

As Riddle warded off the first jet of red light, looking a little amused at the simple spell, the follow-up spell trailed behind the stunner and was sucked into Riddle's shield as well – and then it exploded, a tiny white pinpoint of light that erupted into bright yellow flames. Tom Riddle's face contorted into fury as he was flung to the ground, and he stood up with a snarl on his mouth.

_Oh, God._

Voldemort stopped holding back. He started firing spells so quickly that Hermione barely had time to conjure any shield at all. It was a miracle that she found a way to dive out of the way of one black stream that looked particularly vicious. Her face met the stone floor with a rough thud, and she scrambled back to her feet and waved her wand desperately, sending a lavender disk of power spinning across the dueling area.

Riddle warded it off with a flick. It smashed into one of the House tables with a colossal bang. Riddle glanced back at it with half a grin on his face, lazily raising his wand to attention once more.

Hermione took in a deep breath. _Like I practiced._

Flick. _Dora auctus! _Flick. _Gea prolato! _Flick. _Iuguma!_ Her wand danced through the air, and it was as if she were watching from afar, not participating at all, but just watching a powerful witch draw upon reserves of strength. A fierce grin somehow worked its way onto her face. This was exhilarating.

Riddle was blocking her every move and countering, but neither of them was making much headway. However, he wasn't using the things he was famous for – Unforgivables, illegal curses, Dark Magic. Hermione supposed that it was hindering his ability to duel, or else she surely would have lost by now. _Would have been dead by now. _But the fact that she was still going reassured her.

_Arigulum!_ She blocked a flailing length of ghostly chain. _Concida!_

A globe of white air spun around her body and spat itself at Riddle. He transformed it into a fiery phoenix with deep red eyes, which flew at her and harassed her, pecking at her eyes. Hermione yelled and waved her wand at the bird, causing it to erupt into flame and flutter down to the ground in thousands of tiny pieces of paper.

They were at an impasse. Riddle was frustrated by his inability to use Dark magic; Hermione was clearly outmatched, only barely managing to struggle her way through – but she stood tall and confident, as if nothing had fazed her at all.

The pair stood, reluctant to continue. Hermione was afraid that he would lose control and use Dark magic, and suddenly she would be on the ground, jerking in pain, and she would be refusing to tell him where Harry was hiding—

Memory crippled her.

"_Tell me, you stupid girl," hissed the Dark Lord, and as his wand moved slightly closer, she was curling and stretching, screaming, screaming, screaming, as if every nerve in her body had been sliced open, her eyes so tightly shut it was painful, her fingernails scrabbling helplessly at the stone ground, tears leaking into a pool beneath her contorted face—_

Her eyes squinted shut with the pain of the memory, a remembered shock... and then her wand jerked itself from her hand, just as her eyes were opening again.

After all that, defeated with an Expelliarmus.

_Well, it's better than an Avada Kedavra._

Riddle scrutinized her even as he twirled her vine wand in a pale hand.

There was a long pause, and the audience burst into raucous applause. Riddle nodded once to her, his eyes inscrutable, and tossed her wand at her before turning away and walking back to his Slytherins.

Hermione retrieved her wand from the ground and tucked it into her pocket.

So much for staying unnoticed. As she stepped off the platform, she could feel countless stares on her. She looked at the ground, sticking her hands in her pockets and hunching down as if it would make people stop looking.

R.J., Godric, and Mina had nothing to say. The latter two were actually open-mouthed, and R.J.'s eyebrows were raised so high that they vanished under his black bangs.

Hermione watched the rest of the duels in silence.

It was only later, in the Common Room, that the others said anything about her duel. "Where on earth did you learn all that?" Mina asked.

"I enjoy reading," Hermione replied honestly. "I can always learn more, though."

R.J. let out a long, low whistle. "Can't imagine what else there is to learn."

Hermione looked at Godric. "I reckon you could teach me a few things."

Godric smiled back. "Reckon I could," he said cockily.

Mina rolled her eyes. "Merlin, this one. Don't encourage him."

Hermione chuckled, silently thanking her lucky stars that no one had asked why Riddle had challenged her. She wasn't sure if her lying would be advanced enough to handle it.

Unfortunately, between the book, the duel, and the middle name, Hermione was afraid that she had made herself far more interesting to Riddle than she could have imagined.


	5. Chapter 5

Tom Riddle sat quietly in a black armchair in the Slytherin Common Room, thinking quietly. He didn't often encounter an enigma in this place – the people were largely too uninteresting, and everything except his own academic pursuits bored him. Yet – here had come a girl, a quiet girl with sheltered emotions behind her eyes and more than a few vicious hexes up her sleeve, and he was... intrigued. For the first time in a while, he was interested by someone, instead of something.

She wasn't a threat to him, obviously, but she seemed to think that he was a threat to her, for whatever reason, and that attracted him to her like a magnet. Why would she be scared of him? He was as much the golden child as ever; no one at this false school really knew him well enough to dislike him. Her fear was completely mystifying.

Tom Riddle didn't like being mystified. She had told him that she was easily intimidated, and then strongly implied that her intimidation stemmed from his physical presence. That wasn't entirely implausible in itself, but if it were something that made her scared of men, then she would have been avoiding those Gryffindor friends of hers – King and Gryffindor. But he somehow liked that she was afraid of him – it gave him a raw and powerful feeling, although it was hardly as if she was cowering.

The girl had a certain unstable grace about her, a wiry strength, electricity crackling from her eyes. Since he had seen her in the Restricted Section, he had felt that their meeting was not one of chance. And the fact that she had been seemingly unfazed by a vicious attack of Araminta's just a few days after her arrival...

And this book!  
Riddle hefted the book in his hand. The Quiescence of the Afterlife. Not exactly light reading. More concerning was the fact that he hadn't seen her take that book from the Restricted Section when she had walked out with a stack of books that he could only presume, now, were completely different than they had appeared to be. He ached to use Legilimency on her, but given her power for other spells, he could assume that she was at least a competent Occlumens, and she would notice his intrusion.

Riddle sighed and tucked the book back into his pocket, brushing back his dark hair. What was she hiding from him? What _mattered_ so much that she needed to hide it from him? She was hardly a good liar – although the trembling he had felt when he got close to her was definitely not faked. She was attracted to him, of course, like every other girl in the school, but that wasn't an answer to anything. And yet it was the only thing he had managed to wring out of her, even after he had blown his cover as a nice guy. Whatever it was she knew, he wanted it.

And what he wanted, he always got.

The next month or so passed without event for Hermione. She only had a couple more emotional episodes, and she managed to control them quite well, to her immense relief. The thing that kept her going, mainly, was the Restricted Section. She barreled through the books on different death theories, although she never was able to get back that one that Riddle had...

Riddle was the only thing that unsettled Hermione anymore. He hadn't managed to get her alone again, but he'd started giving her bland smiles in the hallways and saying, "Hello," which unnerved her immensely. Not only that, but it made her friends uneasy. Every time it happened, Godric gave her a funny glance and R.J. glared after Riddle. Mina just elbowed her and gave her sleazy grins.

"Does he think you're best friends or something?" she once teased. "Maybe he's interested. I don't know; I wouldn't mind getting with him, even if he is a Slytherin—"

Godric shoved Mina, a look of repulsion on his face. "Ugh, Mina, that's disgusting."

Hermione laughed, but was secretly perturbed. What was Riddle playing at? If he thought that her friends would be scared away by her having a friend in Slytherin, he was sorely mistaken. She would leave nothing to chance. She would _not_ encounter him alone again.

Still, though, she didn't – and couldn't – trust anything he did. Not one bit. She had attended every Dueling Club since arriving, but he hadn't challenged her again, nor had anyone else. The incidence of Riddle dueling was only once preceded, and he had defeated his opponent in under thirty seconds then, so the fact that he had dueled a new student – and with such ferocity – had caused quite a stir.

Hermione had managed to fade back into the background with relative ease. She spent most of her time alone in her room, reading, but she had also been coerced into exploring Hogwarts with R.J., Godric, Mina, Albus, and Miranda. They constantly surprised her with how much she liked them; she hadn't thought she could like anyone as much as Harry and Ron, but she had latched onto this new group of Gryffindors like they were her family. They might as well have been, although Hermione could not find a way to fill that ache in her chest when she thought of Ron.

Worse to think of, when she thought of Ron, was the way their relationship had fettered and stuttered and stopped before finally starting in earnest, although that was perhaps one of the best idiosyncrasies of their love – the constant banter, the way he would wave off her corrections, the slight frustration that was always satisfied by his smile.

Rumors were that the event coordinators – that group of Gryffindors and Ravenclaws that planned games and activities – were coming up with something for next week. Hermione was excited – apparently, there was one big event every couple of months, and this would be the first she had seen.

But the passage of time was something that niggled at her. Godric's rough estimate on the passage of time had hardly been accurate – Hermione was able to determine, from R.J.'s and her own dates of appearance, that for every day that passed in her world, back on Earth, about three days passed. That was better than she had originally thought – the original estimate had been a week or so for every day – and had put her a little more at ease while she was researching for a way out.

Thread theory wasn't mentioned in any of the books she had read thus far – she had only read one paragraph about it, ever, and that was by a previously-unpublished author, so there wasn't much to go off. She had faith, though, in her researching ability.

When she wasn't reading, she was being taught spells she had never dreamed of by Godric and Albus. Magic had never really challenged her in school – the only things that had ever taken her any time to learn were vague concepts, like nonverbal spellcasting, but even that had only taken a few tries before it was under her control. Yet now – being taught by two of the greatest wizards ever to live – Hermione rejoiced in a challenge. Wand patterns that were practically impossible to remember, incantations that had multiple parts and multiple movements, hexes that required cobbling together several hexes, like a chemical reaction – Hermione had never been so fascinated. She was progressing quickly, too, and delighted in it.

She wondered about what would happen if one were to be killed in this world, though. What would happen if someone got Avada Kedavra cast on them? The caster would surely suffer some sort of rip in the soul and be trapped longer, but the person who had been killed – would they just move on?

In any case, Hermione's eventual and secret goal was not just to move on, but to get back to the real world somehow. Harry had done it. Surely it could be possible, somehow...

"Quidditch today!" cheered Mina, sitting down at the breakfast table with a thump. Hermione couldn't help grinning at Mina's exuberant smile. The girl hadn't been able to shut up about this next match for the past week and a half, and as Quidditch Captain, she had been calling practices every day for three hours. Hermione had dropped by a few times – the team was phenomenal, unsurprisingly. With as much time to practice as they had, it was expected. Mina in particular, who was the Keeper, was incredible. She did things with the Quaffle that Hermione had never seen from anyone before.

"How's Slytherin shaping up?" Hermione asked. Mina made a face.

"They're a bunch of dirty players," Godric cut in, rolling his eyes.

"Surprising," Miranda said quietly from behind her book.

Mina sighed, glancing over at the Slytherin table. "Yeah, we've just got to, you know, keep our wands at the ready and pray they don't decide to pull some Dark Magic out of their sorry arses."

Hermione snorted. "Who's on the Slytherin team?"

Mina started to count off on her fingers, pointing at various Slytherins as she went. "Well, there's Malfoy, of course. He's the team captain. He's also the only one that plays fair. The rest... Melly, for one, and then her buddy Barda – the big guy, there, that one. They're both Beaters. The Seeker's Herpo, down there – don't know much about him – and the Chasers... Malfoy's one, and the other two are Kenji Takahashi and Andre Taylor. Those two. And the Keeper – Briene Flint, her."

Flint – any relation to Marcus Flint? Hermione studied the faces of the Slytherins. She didn't fancy being on the pitch when Araminta was in possession of a Beater's club, that was for sure. In fact, she wasn't so sure that she'd be comfortable sitting in the stands when Araminta could hit a Bludger at her. It might even be better to be sitting in the Infirmary at the ready, so when her friends got injured she could help them as quickly as possible.

Light breezes rushed through the Quidditch stands, spreading infectious game-day vigor. Hermione watched as the Gryffindor team emerged onto the pitch. Every single player had the same broom – a fairly standard Nimbus Two Thousand and One. According to Mina, they were the school brooms.

There was no Madam Hooch to blow the whistle. The players rose into the air, and then Mina called, "Alohomora," and the box holding the four balls exploded open. Mina levitated the Quaffle into the air, and as it fell, the game began.

Albus was the commentator, which was bizarre. His voice was strangely soporific to listen to, calming rather than riling. "Anderson Prewett's bat connects with that Bludger to the left over there," he mused, as if only vaguely interested. "Ah, yes, and it seems as if Araminta Meliflua has hit one, too. Ooh, it makes contact with Godric Gryffindor, and he loses his grip on the Quaffle. That Quaffle is descending quickly – oh, look. Briene Flint is taking out her wand. Ms. Flint, may I remind you, that's very clearly against regulations. Annabella Wespurt is just out of the Infirmary from the last match, and she's drawing her wand, too. Well, we'll get back to _that_ in just a moment – the Quaffle is being passed to Abraxas Malfoy. Quite a fast flier, and he's passing to – oh, no, it's been intercepted by Gryffindor. Godric Gryffindor, that is, heh heh."

Hermione's eyes were fixed on Briene Flint, who was aiming her wand at Annabella Wespurt, a plump blonde Chaser. Flint raised her wand with a grim smile, but Wespurt flicked her own wand, and a jet of red light sent Flint's wand flying from her hand just as the Quaffle soared through the Slytherin goal. There was an uproar from the rest of the Slytherin team. "Come on, Flint!" roared Araminta's Beater friend. Abraxas Malfoy just sighed and looked skyward as if in exasperation.

Then a Bludger, which seemed to be moving uncommonly quickly, slammed into a Gryffindor Chaser with a sickening crack. The girl screamed and fell into a tailspin. She managed to right herself just before the ground, toppling onto the field gently, clutching at her left shoulder.

Dumbledore sighed. "Well, if a Gryffindor could please escort Ms. Jinnah off the field and to the Infirmary, that would be lovely. First casualty of our game today – oh, look, there's another one."

A Bludger connected solidly with the Japanese Slytherin Chaser, Takahashi. Another splintering crunch echoed throughout the stands. Hermione's nose wrinkled in disgust, but as she looked around the stands, no one else really seemed fazed by the developments besides herself and Miranda, who was shaking her head slowly.

Within the next five minutes, three more players were out of commission – both Gryffindor Beaters and a Slytherin. Both Mina and Godric had blocked the hexes that were now flying thick their way, and the counterjinxes they were casting were by no means insubstantial. In fact, Mina's Jelly-Legs Hex had Malfoy wriggling his way off his broom until he was hanging by both hands, his legs quivering helplessly. Godric had cast a Tickling Jinx on Flint, and she was laughing helplessly, holding onto one of the goalposts for support as her broom threatened to give way.

_This isn't Quidditch; this is barbarism,_ thought Hermione as Araminta hit a well-placed Bludger into the face of Annabella Wespurt, whose nose promptly broke. Five Slytherins and three Gryffindors were left – Mina, Godric, and the Seeker, a tiny black girl who had a knack for aerobic spinning that left Slytherin's Herpo in the dust.

Then, just as Godric managed to charm Araminta into hitting herself in the face with her own bat, the Gryffindor Seeker whirled into a spectacular dive, and seconds later it was over. Cheering erupted from the stands, and the remaining Gryffindors took a lap around the pitch. Hermione sighed, snuck out of the stands, and back to the school. She could celebrate that night – but right then she just felt utterly drained, as if she had watched an exquisite torture instead of a Quidditch match.

She found herself ascending the stairs to the Infirmary. Inside, the six players who had been injured were sitting on beds, being given small vials of potions by a young, tanned man in Ravenclaw robes. As Hermione walked tentatively towards them, another student bustled out from another room, wand at the ready. He was tall and dark-skinned, and had a very businesslike look on his face.

"What have you given them, Jared?" he asked in a deep voice.

The Ravenclaw shrugged. "A little of this, a little of that," he replied. "A couple of pain relievers, for these three. I figure you can fix the others pretty fast, Mungo – it's not nearly as bad as last time."

Mungo! St. Mungo?

Hermione felt supremely awkward watching Mungo in action. His wand flickered up to Annabella's nose – Hermione recognized a silent _Episkey_ – and the girl gasped as her nose realigned itself. Mungo pulled a small, white towel seemingly out of the air and wiped Annabella's face, then waved her on her way.

"Thanks, Mungo!" she called. "Appreciate it!"

Mungo glanced over at Hermione. "Are you hurt, too?" he sighed. "I'll be right there, just hang on a quick -"

"No, no," Hermione assured him, "I just wanted to see."

Mungo stared in disbelief, and then chuckled. "Not used to violence, are you?"

Hermione gave a hollow laugh at his words. Not used to violence – of course not, unless you counted seeing endless Unforgivables, curses beyond all imagining, torture – and of course, experiencing her own torture before being mercilessly killed. "No, I'm used to violence," she said dryly, "it's just Healing I haven't seen a lot of in a while."

"Well, I guess, if you're interested, go ahead and take a seat," said the other Healer, Jared. Hermione nodded quickly and sat down on one of the crisp white beds.

Giant boils had erupted all over one of the Gryffindor players. "What do you think this is?" Jared asked Mungo. "I thought it was a Furnunculus, personally, but I could see it being a few other more obscure hexes, too."

Mungo nodded. "No, that's a Furnunculus, all right." He raised his wand once more, and the boils melted away from the boy as if they had never been there. "Jared – could you get him a Desiit Draught?"

Jared walked swiftly over to a huge cabinet and opened it wide. Hermione's eyes opened large in surprise as she stared at the hundreds of vials that were tucked into small slots all over the cabinet. Jared reached into the back, tugged a small vial filled with blue liquid out, and handed it to the Gryffindor boy. "Take that before sleeping tonight – should help with the nasty side effects in, uh, _other _places," said Jared with a grin. The patient flushed crimson and hurried away.

After fifteen minutes or so, two of the remaining patients had been cured and sent back to their respective Houses, and only one remained – a Slytherin. Two hexes seemed to have mated in the air and reflected onto him, leaving him with a strange texture and color to his skin not unlike that of a dead leaf. Jared didn't go into the cabinet, but instead retreated into the back room, returning with several different bottles. Hermione watched in fascination as Mungo and Jared tossed around possibilities of combinations – they assumed that one hex had been a Stunner, as the Slytherin boy was completely immobile, but couldn't decide which spell could possibly react with a Stunner to give that skin result.

Hermione smiled as the two wizards debated. There was something comforting about the fact that there were countless witches and wizards back on earth who were devoting their lives to doing this, all day – helping everyone, no matter the malady, no matter who it was.

Eventually, Jared opened the Slytherin's mouth and poured in some gold potion, followed by a small bit of a clear, fizzing solution. There was a pop, and then Mungo tentatively rubbed at the Slytherin's left cheek, sighing in satisfaction as the leaf-like substance flaked off, revealing new skin beneath it.

"Evanesco," he said, and with a wave of his wand, the skin was removed and the boy was back to normal, if a little pinker and softer than usual. Jared placed a swirling green potion to the unconscious boy's lips and tilted it backwards. Hermione recognized that one, at least – a Replenishment Potion, designed to regrow certain body parts – probably to help with the layers of skin that seemed to have been scrubbed off in the cure.

Then the two Healers turned to Hermione. "So, interested in Healing, eh?" asked Jared, holding out a hand. "My name's Jared Pippin."

"I'm Mungo Bonham," introduced the other.

"Hermione Granger," said Hermione with a smile. "It's quite reassuring that at least two people in this place are taking some responsibility."

Jared laughed, and Mungo gave a serene smile.

"We could always use someone else," Jared said. "You any good at Healing?"

_Maybe if I had had the chance to have a profession, a career, a life outside of that war –_

"No. Well, I don't know."

Mungo shrugged. "Well, it's really just a mixture of all the most important things put together," he said gently. "Come by any time you're interested in helping out – we can always use a pair of hands for potion-making, or for experimenting on antidotes and remedies."

"Ooh, that sounds fascinating!" exclaimed Hermione. "I do love the principles behind antidotes as a whole."

Mungo and Jared exchanged amused glances. "Great!" Jared said. "Well, we'll see you some other time, then? We're going to go to get some food. Feel free to look around – just don't, you know, mess anything up terribly."

"Of course not," said Hermione, and retreated to the potions cabinet, opening it wide and looking through the fruits of Jared's labors. _Wow, some of these are really advanced._

Hermione wondered how many leaps and bounds ahead of modern medical magic this pair was, given that they'd had hundreds of years of uninterrupted study.

Hundreds of years. Merlin – what was she going to do if she was stuck there for that long? Hermione sat down on the bed, a small vial of pink liquid in her left hand. She couldn't even fathom being there for more than a year, let alone a hundred. She had to get back to Earth.

What was she doing? She had a mission. She had a plan. She had research to do, and it was ridiculous to waste time when she could be researching. Shunting the vial back into its slot, she closed the cabinet gently and walked down from the Infirmary to the common room.

"Hermione!" cheered Godric as she made her way through the portrait hole. "Where in the bloody hell were you?"

"Lay off the Firewhiskey, would you, mate?" R.J. mumbled to Godric. "You're hurting my ears."

"The Infirmary," Hermione said. She looked around – celebrations were clearly well-executed here. An open case of Firewhiskey, and two of Butterbeer, sat on a table that looked as if it might collapse from the weight. Laughing, talking people were draped all over the chairs and sofas, and whistling, silvery charms spun through the air. They reminded Hermione faintly of the Weasleys' Wildfire Whiz-bangs. The gentle firelight cast a warm glow over the Gryffindors, and with the ephemeral beauty of the other world, the place reminded Hermione of a strange and joyful dream.

Hermione looked over at Mina, who was animatedly recounting her simultaneous blocking of hexes and Quaffle with a Butterbeer in hand. Even Albus and Miranda were enjoying the pleasantly loud atmosphere, and neither held their usual books or various academia.

"So, Hermione," said R.J., "what did you think about the match?"

"In a word? Violent."

R.J. laughed. "Yeah, that's apparently how Quidditch always used to be, back in the 1800s. Most people in here are from the 1800s, actually – and you used to be able to use light hexes and spells during matches."

Hermione looked skeptical. "I never read about that in the History of Quidditch..."

"When it got reformed, people thought it would make fans uneasy about the sport, so they just sort of omitted it from the original rules," said R.J., sitting down with a sigh on the sofa. "I like the non-violent version better."

"Yes. I quite agree," said Hermione. "Listen – I'm a bit tired, so I'm going to go up to the dormitory, if anyone asks after me." She didn't want to be abrupt, but it had been silly to attend the match in the first place, when she should have been reading.

In the dormitory, it was very dark and very quiet. Hermione lit a lantern and got into bed with three books, bed hangings drawn. She didn't get to sleep until far beyond midnight.

"Did you see her face?" giggled Araminta, her pointy features sneering into a laugh. The Slytherins around her chortled, drinking their Butterbeers in the dimly greenish half-light of the common room. "I might have done her a favor by breaking her nose– maybe now she'll have the sense to get it shrunk down a few sizes. The rest of her could use some shrinking, too." She took a swig of her Firewhiskey, then turned to face Tom Riddle, who was sitting in a black armchair, an unopened Butterbeer in his left hand, his legs stretched out in a casually dominant position.

"Did you watch the game, Tom?" she asked. He blinked, as if waking calmly from a dream, and turned to face Araminta.

"No," he said, and then turned back to the fire. There was a brief hush in the conversation – one did not question Tom Riddle's motives about anything, but there was nothing really to say to that.

Then Abraxas walked in, his blond hair soaking, carrying another case of Firewhiskey, and the common room relaxed back into its cheery state. "Merlin, those Gryffindors..." Abraxas grumbled. "One of them dumped a bottle of Butterbeer on me in the stairs." He whipped out his wand to dry his hair as he sat in the chair next to Riddle. "Are you… erm, alright?"

Riddle turned to Malfoy, taking quiet satisfaction in the nervousness he seemed to instill in the bigger boy. Yawning, he stretched out his long legs even further, then placed his chin into his hand and fixed his dark stare on Abraxas for a little longer than was necessary. "Yes, I'm doing reasonably well, Abraxas," he said quietly. "And yourself?"

Malfoy was taken aback. A bit of a smile appeared on the corner of his lip, and his grey eyes appeared genuinely grateful at the question. "Not bad, even considering we didn't win the match," he replied, his deep voice regretful. "You seem... pensive. Any reason?" He couldn't believe his own daring – he had never asked Tom Riddle any question in his life, and now two, in a few minutes?

Riddle looked back at the fire. Malfoy was the closest to him, and was definitely a competent and capable wizard. He could be trusted with just a little bit of information, surely... "Shall we take a walk?" Riddle suggested smoothly, standing up. There was a bit of a lull in the boisterous atmosphere as the Riddle strode from the Slytherin Common Room, Malfoy hurrying after him.

They strolled through the dungeons. Riddle didn't say anything for a long while, collecting his thoughts.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Where to begin? How could he impress upon Malfoy how irritating this issue was?

"Are you familiar with the new Gryffindor at all?" asked Riddle.

"The girl? No," said Abraxas.

Riddle stopped walking and opened a classroom door, checking up and down the hallway. He gestured for Malfoy to enter – he couldn't risk anyone overhearing this conversation. He flicked his wand, casting a simple charm to keep their words from slipping outside the classroom door. "I have a conjecture," he said, "that she knows something that I would very much like to know."

Abraxas nodded. He understood – Riddle would not tell him what that piece of information was, or even what it related to, and he expected him not to question it, ever. As far as Riddle went, that was pretty standard.

Riddle leaned against the teacher's desk, casually lighting the torches around the room. "And, as such, I would like to find out as much about her as possible," he said carefully, his quiet, cultured voice echoing around the dungeon.

"I would suppose you had already heard, but Araminta Meliflua discovered that the girl was Muggle-born just a few days after her arrival, if that helps," Abraxas said smoothly.

Riddle's head jerked up to look at Malfoy. The blond boy instantly averted his gaze, as if it were a crime to look into Tom Riddle's eyes. Not many people did. "Really," Riddle muttered, turning back to stare blankly at the back of the classroom.

_A Mudblood? Able to duel like that?_ He found the concept just a little bit disgusting. A Mudblood, clearly endowed with magical talent that would have been so much better spent on a witch or wizard of purity... Although Riddle was a half-blood himself, he would never permit anybody to know it. After all, having dirty blood was just an unfortunate side circumstance of Riddle's life, one that he had quickly erased as a factor after he—

"Should I leave you?" Abraxas asked, never meeting his eyes. Riddle let him squirm in uncomfortable silence for a few seconds before asking, in a dangerously soft voice,

"Excuse me?"

Malfoy repeated, "Should I?"

Riddle stared at the boy's averted grey eyes, willing him to look up, and inevitably, he did, unable to evade the hypnotic stare that Riddle employed so well.

"Should I... what?" Riddle whispered.

Malfoy's eyes flickered back to the ground. "Should I leave you, Master?"

"Yes," Riddle said quietly. "Inform no one about this conversation. If anyone questions you, do not hesitate to redirect them to me."

His soft voice sent a tingle down Malfoy's spine. A redirected encounter with Riddle would never end well. Abraxas left as quickly as he could without it being considered fleeing.

Riddle sighed and stared at the ceiling. The huge gray flagstones overhead flickered in the soft red light of the torches. Had that been a mistake? Admittedly, he was devoting quite a disproportionate amount of his thought processes to the Granger girl – far more than he felt should be logical. Would it even help to explore it? If necessary, a well-placed Memory Charm on Abraxas wouldn't go amiss…

He had seen the Gryffindor girl's singularly bushy hair traveling across the grounds as she left the Quidditch match, and had been sorely attempted to corner her again and just use Legilimency on her. No, though; that would not do. How brash and uncivilized. He could do better than that.

He shuddered as he recalled Abraxas' words. _Mudblood._ His lip curled involuntarily – _Mudblood. _She was of no significant heritage, then – not descended from anyone important, anyone of worth. That was perhaps even more interesting in itself, that she would be capable enough to learn such advanced magic with no magical background, but still – it was just so repulsive, the notion of her being lovingly raised by a pair of Muggles, no better than alien beasts, no better than the creatures at his own filthy orphanage –

Riddle sighed and rubbed at an eye with a long finger. A spot of torture, surely, wouldn't be too terrible? Not if it allowed him to get what he needed... a simple Crucio, and then he could Obliviate her afterwards. Less of a last resort than Legilimency, anyway.

Yes, the idea was appealing, but it left too much room for error. Especially with a wild card like Granger to deal with – perhaps she, too, had Dark Magic to work with, but was hiding it. She was proficient in non-verbal magic, knew complex hexes and how to block them – Dark Magic definitely seemed like the logical next step. Though her being in Gryffindor complicated matters.

And after Araminta's friend Barda had smashed her nose, Merlin – she hadn't even cried. She had lain there, and then after a while, very calmly picked herself up, taken a deep breath, and fixed her appearance before striding back to the castle as if nothing had happened.

Perhaps worst was the fact that she seemed to have forgotten all about Riddle. It brought hot anger pooling in his stomach. These days, her cool brown eyes maintained their steady calm as they drifted over him, and when he greeted her in the hallways, she only ever blinked and looked mildly puzzled. The most she had shown was slight irritation, as if he were a bug that needed removal, and that made Riddle very angry indeed.

He rolled up his sleeves, suddenly feeling uncomfortably warm with anger.

Riddle took out his wand, tracing his name in fiery letters in the air and casually rearranging them –

_I Am Lord Voldemort._

Why was he even letting the issue of a single Mudblood girl occupy time in his mind? He had more important things to worry about – like the issue of how to get back to Earth, though that quest had gone unsolved for years.

_Tom Marvolo Riddle._

What was he like on Earth, now? Surely, if he had died, he would have moved on. That was how it had worked for everyone else with horcruxes thus far...

_I Am Lord Voldemort._

Maybe Granger had known him back on Earth – but no, that was ludicrous. He would be in his seventies, and there was no reason to fear a seventy-year-old man.

_Tom Marvolo Riddle._

But if any of his plans of his youth had proceeded to completion, then he would hardly be judged by his age, but instead by his power. Besides, back in his schoolboy days, Albus Dumbledore had been ancient already, and had been a force to be reckoned with. Granger knowing him was not to be ruled out as a possibility.

Still – she was not so suspicious that he needed to alert his full force about the possibility of her being a threat. She might only be a very intelligent, very easily flustered girl, unused to boys showing her any attention.

Actually, yes – that was the one thing that seemed to unseat her cool – attention. She had very expertly managed to duck under the school's attention after the duel, a feat that Riddle had not imagined she could accomplish. She only ever seemed flustered when he kept his eyes on her.

That was the way to get to her – quietly, in private, where he could use all his wiles and charms, with which he was most certainly dexterous. All the better if she was at ease, so she would let down those fascinating barriers –

Riddle looked at the torches. They were burning low; it was time to get back to the common room, apologize deeply to Araminta for missing the match and being so distant – he did have his image to maintain, after all – and then ever so politely excuse himself to bed.

He slowly relaxed his face into that perfectly composed, unshakable expression, and extinguished the torches.


	6. Chapter 6

**Thanks to beautiful reviewers. I shower you with flowers and lots of chocolate:**

**Imeralt Evalon, JC1988, , 13Nyx13, Anna on the Horizon, Smithback, leceilbleu, Kitsune, sexy-jess, ClaireReno, Galavantian, Vinwin, NougatEvolution, mngurl07, and iamweasleyfred.**

* * *

"Come on, Hermione, it'll be fun. Stop being so... like that."

"Mina, I told you, I'm not feeling well. I just want to stay here and sleep, all right?"

That, of course, was a complete lie. An underwater scavenger hunt? First of all, Hermione had an extreme dislike for deep water. Second of all, in the Second Task, being kept hostage underwater had been unpleasant enough while unconscious; she could scarcely imagine participating in that type of thing while awake. Third of all, the memories barraging her of the Second Task – Ron's face when he saw Krum taking her out of the lake, Ron's relief to find that she was okay, Ron's stupid, hidden affection – were insuppressible and highly inconvenient. No, she would stay out of this one.

"Fine, fine," Mina sighed with a huge eyeroll. "I'll see you at dinner, then."

Hermione nodded. "Listen, I'm sorry – I'll do whatever the next event is, I promise."

"You will?"

"Yes."

Mina considered for a second. "Swear on... something."

Hermione snorted. "Fine, I swear on R.J.'s emasculation complex. Happy?"

That earned a laugh from Mina, who left Hermione alone in the dormitory.

It was starting to get tedious, sifting through all these books, though. Hermione had never been tired of books in her life, but all these theories were wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong, and she just needed the _one_ to help her get back, and it was just not surfacing.

After a few hours of reading through Beautiful Death: Subtleties of Passing, Hermione tossed it to the ground, disgusted. Letting out an animal noise of frustration, she rolled out of bed. _I'll just go and get some dinner, then..._

She picked the book back up and walked briskly to the Great Hall. The hallways were absolutely deserted – every single student seemed to be participating in this underwater scavenger hunt thing. Hermione sighed as she walked into the Great Hall. The usual feast was laid on the table, but a total of three other people were at the tables. Two were a pair of Ravenclaws, twin sisters. The first week, Mina had pointed out the sisters to Hermione, saying, "Those are the Marque twins. Leila and Lyla. Terrible names, right? They're incorrigible gossips." They kept giggling annoyingly and casting glances at the other person, who was, of course, Tom Riddle.

_Frivolity, I would assume, is beneath the Dark Lord..._

Hermione dug into some corn, laying the book on the table next to her and flipping to page 394, where she had stopped. Her eyes scanned over the words blankly, not really expecting anything of merit, and she was not surprised. Drivel, drivel, drivel.

Forty more pages of drivel...

Hermione stood up, having finished her meal, and shoved the book into her pocket. What a travesty to literature – the author obviously had no idea what he was talking about.

Her eyes trailed over to Leila and Lyla Marque, who were watching Tom Riddle leave the Great Hall.

She frowned. Why was he practically running?

Hermione slipped her hand into her pocket. She gripped her wand for reassurance before making a split-second decision and following. What a brash decision – but honestly, she needed something else to do. She would have gone outside if she didn't think that it would result in people calling for her to jump in the lake.

She peeked around the edge of the Great Hall's doors and hurried after him. Quietly rapping herself on the head, she cast a hasty Disillusionment Charm and walked quietly to keep about ten feet behind him.

He was most certainly walking with purpose, checking over his shoulder every few quick paces. His dark profile was watchful and serious, and it drew Hermione's eyes.

She observed how he walked – with pressed rigidity, the complete opposite of his casual, languid air when he was still. His perfectly shined shoes clacked on the stone steps, and he agitatedly stroked his hair back into place with great frequency, as if it were something to be worried about.

As they got off on the fourth floor, Hermione had a shock as he shot another hasty glance backward and happened to look right at her. She stopped still, her heart thundering, and only continued tailing Riddle after he had turned the next corner.

It was on the next hallway that he stopped and unlocked a classroom, slipping inside and shutting the door behind himself. Hermione cursed softly. If the door was shut, she couldn't get inside –

But that didn't really matter, after all, as she stood at the door and peered inside. A huge cauldron sat on a raised stone platform just a few feet from the door. Riddle emptied his pockets. Hermione pressed her nose to the glass carefully, trying to look at what the ingredients were.

Riddle's long fingers separated the items into different piles – there were two separate stacks of what looked like grasses, some brown stuff, a white powder in a glass vial...

His face as he examined the ingredients was unsatisfied. He patted his pockets, then closed his eyes in frustration, his nostrils flaring in anger. He turned and opened the door so suddenly that Hermione didn't even have time to think before being knocked backwards onto the floor with a loud thump. Her wand clattered away from her, but she didn't dare move.

"Hello?" Riddle said. He walked out of the classroom, looking up and down the hallway. Then he took his wand out, and with a broad sweep, muttered, "Finite Incantatem."

Hermione shut her eyes as her Disillusionment Charm faded away, as if her shutting her eyes would shield her from his gaze.

"Hermione Granger," said his deceptively quiet voice. "Why... are you..."

She opened her eyes, and was surprised to see that his hand was held out to her. She took it hesitantly and stood, brushing the dust off her robes.

"I mean... would you care to tell me why you were Disillusioned?" he asked. Hermione looked at his face and was startled by the apparent normalcy. The previous burn in his gaze was replaced by a quiet puzzlement.

"I, uh..." she started, but couldn't think of anything. "Sorry," she mumbled. "I just – I -"

He waited for her to finish, but she didn't. Instead, she cast a glance over his shoulder into the classroom and asked, "What are you making?"

Riddle glanced back at his potion. "Oh, that? Just a little personal project of mine. Interested?"

Hermione shrugged, tucking her hands into her pockets.

"Well, come on," he said, opening the door. She considered running, but her legs walked inside of their own volition. The room smelled like a typical potions laboratory – a pleasant sort of herbal aroma, with the tang of other, stranger ingredients. She stood on her tiptoes and looked inside the cauldron. It was empty.

Riddle casually waved his wand at the immense cauldron, shrinking it to about half its size so that Hermione could comfortably look inside. Then, a thin stream of water flowed from his wandtip and filled the cauldron to the top, and he lit a large fire beneath the cauldron.

Did he want her to ask what he was doing? Because she was perfectly content just to stand there and watch him work. She would probably be able to figure out what potion it was soon enough, anyway.

Riddle looked back up from shredding one of the piles of greenery meticulously and said, "You can sit down, if you'd like."

She remained standing. _Got to be ready to run at any second. Or duel, for that matter._

He shrugged his slim shoulders, finished shredding, and dropped the green stuff into the potion, closely followed by all the white powder. The potion hissed and turned light pink.

Hermione sifted through options in her mind. The white powder, judging from the hissing, was powdered Grindylow horn, but she couldn't tell what the greenery had been. Before she could figure it out, Riddle took the knife, pulled out a small, withered purple pod from his pocket. He pressed it flat and scooped the resulting juice into the potion. Gold sparks came up, and the potion slowly swirled back to its original clear state. Riddle had a satisfied gleam in his eye. He took the other pile of vegetation and dropped it liberally into the cauldron, stirring it in with three counterclockwise turns.

She frowned – she should have been able to recognize it by this point, but she didn't even recognize most of the ingredients. _So much for my Potions O.W.L_., Hermione thought wryly.

"So, uh, what _are_ you making?" she asked, shifting nervously as he turned to face her. He leaned against the stone block, gripping its edges with both pale hands, and a smirk turned the edge of his lip.

"Well, it wouldn't have a name, seeing as it's still in the experimental phase," Riddle said.

"Oh. Oh, so you..." Hermione said, waving her hand vaguely. She swallowed. Her throat seemed to be closing up when she tried to speak, completely foiling her chances at acting natural.

Riddle sighed. "Yes, it's my own invention. Come on, Granger, are you really scared by me?"

"Sure," Hermione deadpanned, as if to be sarcastic. "Because, you know, you're obviously such a terrifying force of evil."

_Just because I use a sarcastic tone, doesn't mean it isn't true._

Riddle nodded, a small smile playing around his lips, and turned back to the cauldron. "Well, that'll need to simmer for two weeks."

Hermione looked at him incredulously. "Two _weeks_? Are you serious?"

"Perfectly," he replied, looking a bit surprised. "Why?"

"Oh, it's just – the initial preparation was short, and of course, usually, the simmering time is less than half that. It's just usually only in most complicated potions, or genre potions, like love potions, or… poisons… that... that the time you let it sit is more than a week..."

Hermione trailed off, turning an unfortunate stoplight red. _Merlin! Calm the hell down!_

Tom Riddle was looking at her curiously, that uncomfortable penetrating look that she felt she would never be rid of.

"What?" she said sharply, and he looked away.

"I hadn't pegged you as the type to be good at potions," he said conversationally. "Usually, it's just wandwork, or just potions. One or the other."

"Oh," said Hermione, and then she did sit down, if only because her right leg was shaking.

It was like he was attempting to have an actual conversation, but Hermione knew that the Dark Lord did absolutely nothing without purpose. It seemed almost surreal, that she was sitting five feet from a casually stretching young Tom Riddle, the exact carbon copy of the boy who grew up into that pasty-faced, vicious-eyed _beast_...

The fire under the cauldron was very hot and very bright. Tom Riddle slowly took off his robes, wiping a bit of sweat from his forehead. Hermione couldn't help but observe him as he slipped out of the robes. He looked like a young businessman, handsome and professional and certainly misleading in appearance.

"So, are you planning on telling me what that's for?" Hermione asked, gesturing to the potion.

"No, probably not," said Riddle, glancing back at the gently bubbling cauldron.

A scowl crept onto Hermione's face. "Why?"

Riddle was taken aback. It had been so long since anybody had questioned him about anything. There was a usual unspoken agreement between him and anyone he happened to engage in conversation – he had the upper hand, always, and he expected that status quo to be maintained. Now he let out an ungraceful "Um" and just looked at the girl opposite him, wondering why his mind was fumbling for an answer.

So he just shrugged.

"Well, you asked if I was interested, and I am," said Hermione, with a hint of a smile touching her lips.

"Perhaps we could trade information," suggested Riddle, pulling a chair from the nearest desk and sitting, his legs stretched, his back slouching against the straight wooden seat. It was his _I'm-in-control_ posture. Riddle restrained a smirk as Hermione's eyes strayed over him for an instant.

"Trade?" she asked him. "What could I know that you'd want to find out?"

_How about everything?_

"Well, we could start out with this," Riddle said, tugging out The Quiescence of the Afterlife from his left pocket.

Hermione's face drew in shock. _Why does he just _have_ that?_ "So, what, do you just carry around possessions you steal all day?" she snorted.

"And if I did?"

"Then... you'd be extremely odd..." _What is he playing at?_

Riddle shrugged, flipping the book open and running his finger down the table of contents. "There's some interesting philosophy in here," he mused aloud.

Hermione scoffed. "Oh, do tell," she said. "I haven't had the chance to actually read it, since, you know, you've had it for the last month."

"Any particular reason you're so interested in death?" he asked, snapping it shut again. Hermione's eyes were stuck to the cover. What if that were to be the single book that could help her get out of here?

"What?" she said, blinking. "Oh, I just – I mean, isn't that normal, for people to want to learn about it after arriving here?"

"For the occasional Ravenclaw."

An awkward silence.

Hermione mumbled, "Most of the books about death are really speculative. It's annoying."

She reached out a hand. Relief flooded her body as he placed the book into it. "Anything specific you're interested in?" he asked. "Most people just poke through a few books on death after getting here, instead of doing a full-blown investigation."

_This isn't getting anywhere,_ thought Riddle.

"So," Hermione asked him, "why aren't you outside at the lake?"

He looked down at his hands, which were twirling his wand. "Don't feel inclined to be there," he answered. "Anyway, I'd win, of course, which would be far too predictable."

Then, she laughed. She _laughed_ at something he had said. His eyes whipped back up to her, but her cheerful laughter didn't peter out even as he fixed her with his signature stare. Some gut instinct in him thought that she had quite a nice smile. Better than the resentful glowers, to be sure. Her rosy lips were spread wide, revealing unnaturally even teeth. Had she charmed those or something?

"What is it?" he asked slowly, unsure as to exactly why she was laughing or why he was not hexing her in embarrassment. One did not just _laugh_ at Tom Riddle.

"Oh, nothing," she sighed, looking up at the ceiling. "It's just – you're so confident. It's comical."

He raised one dark eyebrow. "Comical?" _Yes, it'll be extremely comical when you are unable to breathe in from pain._

She cocked her head. "Does that make you angry? That I find something you said funny?" she asked, her hazel eyes shrewd.

"Well, generally I am offended when someone laughs at me," he said softly, looking back to the cauldron.

"Just because I'm laughing, doesn't mean it's _at you,_" said Hermione, waving away his anger.

Riddle felt strangely mollified by her reassurance, which was strange and new in itself. The words of others didn't tend to affect his mood, unless he was secretly raging from their stupidity or incompetence. For instance, that morning Abraxas had very clearly mentioned Granger to the Slytherin table at large, and Riddle had seethed inside. What had he thought he was accomplishing, drawing attention to the girl? The last thing Riddle needed was for her to close up even more, be even more secretive.

He let out a vague 'eh' noise, turning back to the potion. "Why aren't _you_ out there, with your Gryffindor… friends?" he asked.

"Well, I was planning on just staying in bed and reading, but that... didn't happen."

"That's not an answer to my question," Riddle said.

Hermione sighed. He really wasn't going to let her get away with anything, was he? "I don't like deep water."

He nodded, his fair skin lit up by the fire beneath the cauldron. "Bad experience?"

"You could say that."

Riddle watched as Hermione stared into the potion, her eyes glazed by the reflection of the fire. There was a haunted look beneath her eyes, a look that he wanted to understand – but surely, if he asked her about it, she would just give him another vague half-answer and leave it at that.

He wondered why she was still sitting there if she was terrified of him and had other things to be doing. Riddle fiddled with the ring on his hand, gold with that jet-black stone, and thought quickly. She really was looking rather dejected.

"Are you all right?" he muttered, words that he didn't think he had ever spoken in his life.

_Voldemort is asking me if I'm all right._ A bemused expression made its way onto Hermione's face. "As well as I can be, probably, under the circumstances."

"You mean your death?"

Hermione nodded. He was not looking back at her, but instead looking pensively into the potion, his back rigidly straight again all of a sudden. His mannerisms were so capricious – one second, he looked as if he didn't have a care in the world, and the next, every muscle was poised, as if to strike.

_Remove some suspicion, Hermione. He is a boy you do not know._ "Do you miss your friends and family?" she asked him.

At the word 'family', Riddle's jaw tightened for a split second, and then relaxed. "Yes," he said, which Hermione knew was a complete and bold-faced lie.

She couldn't stop herself from saying, "Really?", but as soon as she had, she wished she hadn't. That was not a reasonable question.

"Why would you think I wouldn't?" Riddle asked, turning his dark eyes back onto her. _Dammit, not again!_

"You just seem very at ease here with your Slytherin f – friends," Hermione said. She'd nearly said 'followers', but caught herself just in time. _Thank Merlin. Disaster averted._

"Well, I'm still alive back on Earth," said Riddle, "and that thought comforts me."

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "How old would you be?"

He frowned. "Seventy-something, I believe."

With a small chuckle, Hermione said, "I can't picture you at seventy." As Riddle turned a questioning gaze on her, she clarified, "You just... seem like you'd never get a day older."

She wondered exactly how Voldemort had undergone his transformation. When had his pale skin died into complete whiteness? When had those dark eyes started to glare red? When had his strong nose shrunk back and clung to his face, leaving only slits for nostrils? It was absolutely unbelievable, the physical transformation that had accompanied the creation of his horcruxes.

"What did you look like when you were older?" he suddenly asked, studying her face so intently that her brain fumbled for words to say.

"Older?"

"You know, when you died – older."

Hermione still couldn't think, not with his eyes locked with hers. Something in her stirred, muttered the word _Legilimency _–

"I didn't – I never -"

She tore her eyes away and cut herself off. She hadn't meant to say those words. No, she hadn't, at all.

His face contorted in shock. "You've never been older than this?" he said disbelievingly.

Hermione cursed mentally. "Er... no." It was too late to recover the fumble. She swallowed and looked out the tall arched windows into the blue sky. She should have gone to the lake, deep water aside.

"How on earth did you die when you were – what, eighteen?" he asked, seemingly horrified.

_Well, interesting that you should ask..._

"I, erm..."

The first thing that came to mind was a car crash. Ludicrous, really – that same lie that had tided Harry over for eleven years, but it wouldn't work for her. As an overage witch, she could just Apparate. There was very little way that she could have been killed _by accident_, and she could say it was suicide, but would he even buy that?

"Well?" he said demandingly, and instantly saw that it was a mistake. She had been getting ready to say something, but now her chin got that stubborn set and her eyes burned defiant.

"Riddle, you're forgetting something. I don't _have_ to say _anything_ to you."

That openly contrary look on her face ignited anger deep within Riddle. He stood up slowly, unfolding himself from the chair, and was pleased to see a speck of fear make its way back onto her face. "You might find it wise to," he said.

There was a long pause as he scrutinized her sitting there. She swallowed, and he smirked. Then she looked away again, and her casual discarding of his presence irked him so much that his teeth clenched involuntarily. "You really are quite infuriating," he murmured.

She stood up, too, seeming to think it a grand gesture although he was a full head taller than she. Shaking her voluminous hair back, she said, "Oh, really? _I'm _infuriating?"

"I don't see why you seem to have some personal vendetta against holding a normal conversation with me," Riddle said calmly, toying with his wand, a small suggestion that she should back down. "All I wanted to know was how you died. Around here, that's a perfectly normal question to ask."

"Well, perhaps that's something I wouldn't like to reveal. To anyone," she said, the indignation in her eyes flaring higher. Riddle gripped his wand tight, restraining himself from just cursing the insolent girl on the spot.

He approached her. "Even though I'm sure you've told all your friends in Gryffindor about it."

Her mouth opened in disgust. "Oh, don't you accuse me of being prejudiced!" she snapped, holding up an index finger in warning. "Don't you _dare_ imply that I would judge someone just because of a – a – _circumstance_!"

Riddle's hand flicked up and grabbed hers. "You should be careful pointing fingers," he commented, in a suspiciously gentle tone.

Judging someone because of a circumstance, huh? His mind recalled one of the only things he knew for sure: _Mudblood Mudblood Mudblood Mudblood_ "Being a Slytherin isn't just a circumstance," he said. "It's as much a part of who you are as your race, your height... your _heritage_..."

He trailed off, realized she had a look of mild, suppressed pain on her face, and stopped gripping her hand.

Well, this was going terribly.

Hermione stared coldly back at him. Y_our heritage. _Of course. Tom Riddle, the enemy of Muggle-borns and Muggles in general. She shook her hand out – his grip had been strong. Painfully strong, although those slim fingers held a wand so gently, so delicately.

She suddenly realized how close she was to him, looking hesitantly up into his face, which had an unbecoming sneer on it. But even as she watched, his expression dropped into that indifferent mask, and his eyes fell to the ground.

He crouched down to get Hermione's books, which, at some point, had fallen onto the ground. As he stood up again, a slight breeze rushed against her from his straightening body. It had a tantalizing, masculine tinge of something dark and sweet, and Hermione found herself leaning in slightly towards him before catching herself. He placed the books on the desk behind Hermione.

Hermione realized that each of them was waiting for the other to apologize, but neither would. So she just sat on the desk, eyes level and connected with his, and she crossed her arms expectantly.

Riddle raised his left eyebrow, an attractive smirk pulling at the side of his mouth.

"So, Tom – can I call you Tom?" Hermione said, knowing full well how much he detested the name. She wasn't exactly sure why she was _trying_ to incense Lord Voldemort – after all, they were, as usual, completely alone – but honestly, she was already dead. Nothing really mattered anymore, did it?

"No," he said, somehow still smirking while talking, still expectant.

"So, Tom," she continued, ignoring him completely, "tell me about yourself."

He was taken aback by her words; she could tell that much. "What would you want to know?"

"I don't know. Anything. I find it usually helps people who have loads of repressed anger just to talk about anything in general."

"Repressed anger?" he spluttered.

She nodded. _Oh, come on, like there's anything about you that isn't repressed…_

"Anything I can get in return?" asked Riddle slowly.

Hermione shrugged in nonchalance. "Maybe."

His eyes darkened, but Hermione found that – strangely – she wasn't afraid, not even with that menacing look in his eyes. When had she stopped being terrified? It hadn't been a conscious decision.

Riddle strolled over to the teacher's desk at the front of the room. "Can't think of anything a typical young lady would care to know."

"How about why all the Slytherins seem to hero-worship you?" she retorted, picking at a nail idly. He smirked again – apparently, he liked her use of the word 'worship'.

"I have a way with people," he said simply. "Most people."

Hermione wondered if he had already tortured the Slytherins into submission. Most of it was likely just charm and beguiling – like the way Araminta was all over him with such great frequency; one could not fabricate that through torture. "Why did you ask me to duel you?" Hermione suddenly asked.

Riddle just looked at her for a long moment, some sort of response formulating behind his calculating gaze. "Just curious," he said. "About you."

"That's another thing – why are you curious about me? Do you do this to every new student who arrives here?"

He gave no response, just looked out the window. The sun's long rays stretched through the windowpanes, carving out Riddle's still features in red relief.

Hermione sighed and looked down at her books. She was getting tired of reading about death all day. It was interesting, sure – but Hermione had always been fearful of death, one of the reasons why she always fretted over Harry and Ron and what they were doing. In fact, she still shuddered whenever she thought of the eleven-year-old Harry facing Quirrell, as if time could reverse itself and Harry could still be killed.

She thought aloud, not quite sure why she was doing so. "I miss being back on Earth. I just feel like I'm stuck here forever, like I'm still alive but I just can't do anything about my friends back home. They're going to miss me."

Her finger trailed absentmindedly along the swirly designs on the cover of Beautiful Death: Subtleties of Passing. She was almost surprised when he replied.

"I know. It's... helpless. Like nothing here really matters."

"Yeah," said Hermione. "Up in the Infirmary, Mungo and Jared are doing all these incredible things with medicine – but what's the use of them if they can't help people who are in legitimate danger? In legitimate suffering?"

Riddle probably wouldn't understand that example. He only ever used gain for gain's sake in his lifetime, after all, with no regard as to helping people or making a positive impact in the world. Just... power. Only ever power.

"You've been here for – what, twenty years?" Hermione asked.

Riddle nodded. "It's been a long time. A very, very long time," he murmured.

"I can imagine," Hermione said. "I've only been here for a month, but it's still... suffocating. What have you been doing this whole time?"

Riddle shrugged. He held up his wand. "Spellwork," he said, "and potions. There is always more to learn."

Hermione wondered about Riddle. He had had twenty long years in this place, but he still didn't seem to have any friends – just loyal followers, as usual. She felt a bizarre pang of sympathy. Even when he was surrounded by fellow Slytherins, he looked positively alone.

Was he alone because he was psychotic, or was he psychotic because he was alone? It was a conundrum.

Hermione realized that the sun was slowly setting. "I should go," she said. "I told Mina I was going to be in bed all day, and I already feel bad for lying, so I should -"

"Don't go," he said, but it didn't sound like an order, so she actually listened.

"Why?"

He shrugged casually again, looking over at her. "We were actually acting like two perfectly normal people there, just for a minute."

Hermione laughed. "Perfectly normal? That's a tall order."

Riddle met her eyes, and she could have sworn to God she saw his mouth turn up a little in a hint at a genuine smile. She really did want to leave, did want to go back to her dormitory, but at the same time, she didn't want to go back to the static tedium of death research.

"What's that one?" He pointed a finger at the book next to her. "More death?'

"Yeah," Hermione sighed. "It's getting just a bit depressing."

"I can imagine," Riddle said. "Why couldn't you just read something about living, instead?"

Hermione blinked. That was an idea. She was just as likely to find something in a book about eternal life as one about death.

_Great – now I have twice as much to read._

"Hadn't really thought about that," she said. Just as she was about to say, 'Thank you,' the words died on her lips. She couldn't say those words. Not to him.

He really was completely unreadable. She couldn't tell what he was thinking at all – not the slightest inkling of emotion. When he blinked, it was slowly and deliberately, just readying himself for the next stare.

"Where did you learn all those spells?" Hermione asked. Riddle's wand was in his hands again, twirling around his slim fingers, and he looked down at it.

"Lots of time for research, of course."

"That's not an answer to my question," Hermione said. Riddle scowled as she turned his own words back on him.

"The library," was his response. "And yourself? Even if you refuse to tell me how you died at eighteen – that's a formidable knowledge of spellwork for an eighteen-year-old."

Hermione pulled out her own wand. "Learning spells has always come easily to me, so I did a lot of independent study at school." Independent study – if one were to classify attempting to get rid of Death Eaters an independent study, that was. Riddle had a sort of brooding look on his face.

"Wait," she said, "how old did you say you'd be on Earth now?"

He blinked. "Early seventies."

"So, you too?" Hermione asked.

"What?"

"Well, you said that you arrived here in 1945, and if you were in your early seventies in real life, that would make you about eighteen when you got here."

Riddle's jaw clenched slightly, and for the first time he looked a bit unsettled, as if someone had bested him at something. "Oh," he managed.

He got off the teacher's desk and started to walk slowly around the room, as if weaving a web. He hadn't accounted for that piece of math – stupid, really, how easily he'd let that one slip. Now he seemed just as guilty as she. Riddle instinctively touched the ring on his finger.

Yes, it had been then. He had been young – so young... And, yet, so lucid, so clear in his planning, to get rid of that dirty Muggle. And then all the rest after him. Especially those Muggles, _Muggle-borns,_ that would have liked to pretend they were witches and wizards, so faintly and filthily reminiscent of his father.

Hermione was alarmed to see Riddle's eyes fill with hate, completely randomly, and as they glanced up at her, the expression did not cease.

Riddle's dark eyes flickered away, focusing on the wall. She had probably managed to glean more information about him from being here than he had from her. How had she done that? It was not an option to fail. And, more and more, as he spoke with her, he felt that she was hiding something. It was time for a different tactic. Less guile. More directness.

All the windows were a crack open, letting in the breeze, letting out some of the heat – but now a crack of thunder rattled the windowpanes.

Hermione looked out at the glorious storm that was brewing in the sunset. _I never thought I would be so glad to see actual weather again!_ A crack of lightning forked down and hit the grass. Someone from the lake cast a charm at the spot of grass, presumably extinguishing a fire in the perpetually dry field, and Hermione observed as rain started to pelt down. "_This Ravenclaw girl Melia Trueblood, she's a weather witch."_ She must have been a really powerful weather witch – this was a torrential rainstorm, glorious in its danger. Hermione nearly expected people to come sprinting out of the lake – it wasn't really safe to be in the water in this type of lightning – but then, she mused, Melia had probably made it so that it would avoid the lake.

Riddle flicked his wand, and all the windows slid shut with a loud 'bang', and locked with a collective 'click'. Hermione jumped, and then calmed herself. _He's just keeping out the rain. Get a grip_.

_She's afraid again,_ Riddle thought, and smirked. Good. Fear was essential for his new – and far more familiar – approach.

Her wide brown eyes watched him apprehensively as he raised his wand again. He could tell that she was holding her breath, wondering what he would do next. Sometimes the expressions on that face were so utterly transparent.

He walked towards the front of the classroom and flicked his wand again. The door slammed shut and locked.

"What are you doing?" she asked. So predictable. He didn't grace her idiotic question with an answer.

Hermione's heart was beating hard in her chest now. This wasn't promising. She gripped the smooth handle of her wand as Riddle approached her, still silent.

_Okay. Okay. Calm down, relax – _

"Legilimens!" Riddle suddenly whispered, pointing his wand at her. Hermione closed her eyes and breathed out, letting the thoughts drain from her mind as the jet of blue light collided with her.

She let a simple image fill her mind – the Burrow. Just the Burrow, floating in a sea of bright whiteness. Oh, yes, she had become an accomplished Occlumens. It was absolutely vital that every person in the castle knew at least the basics of Occlumency, in case they were to overhear something that a Death Eater could chew out of their mind with Legilimency –

She pictured each individual story of the Burrow, each delicately teetering story, and felt Riddle's invasive magic shove at her barriers frustratedly, but she quickly returned to the Burrow and solidified its image. Then she started placing the yard down, blade of grass by blade of grass – no, there was nothing else with which she could possibly be concerned, nothing else to think about, nothing but this – Hermione could think of this all day, of her foster home, just a blank slate image of her favorite place in the world, besides perhaps Hogwarts –

Blade of grass, blade of grass, blade of grass, and it was as if Riddle's fingernails were scrabbling at a glass wall to attempt to get through. No, he would not find purchase here. And, as Hermione's vague resolve hardened, she felt her fingers tighten around her wand, and – "Iverbera!" she yelled, jabbing her wand at Riddle's body. His eyes opened wide as he flew across the room to slam into the wall, hard, with a sharp intake of breath, as if punched in the stomach with a huge stone fist.

Hermione's eyes slowly opened, her gaze meeting his with a clash. The utter hatred in his eyes was remarkable, intense and unbroken, a blazing inferno of deep loathing. Gone was all his hard-worked composure – now there was a snarl on his face, undisguised, plain to see. He probably hadn't expected that anyone – a girl, to add insult to injury, and a Mudblood, for even further insult – could block his Legilimency. Later in life, Hermione recalled with a curl of disgust in her lip, he had been so proficient at Legilimency that he hadn't even needed a wand to perform it completely. She waved her wand at the door, and it unlocked and swung open gently, but before she could do anything else, Riddle had flicked his wand at the door, and it was crushed into nothingness by stones that slid into its place. There was no door anymore, just a foot-thick rock wall.

Hermione eyed the wall as Riddle walked back towards her. That would need probably more than a simple Reductor curse to blast through, probably a Confringo would be more appropriate –

Riddle lashed his wand out at her, and a length of rope flew from it towards her, but she flicked her wand at it and it vanished. Then, before she could cast Confringo, it hit her – completely unexpectedly, out of the blue –

"Crucio," he said coldly, aiming his wand at her, and before she could dive out of the way, or even react, his spell blasted into her, knocking her to the cold stone ground, and she was in so much utter pain that she couldn't think at all.

_It's back it's back it's back it's back _in the Room of Requirement, what had she done? It had been so long since _it's back it's back it's back_ she had had to deal with this and now as if a razor was ever so delicately slicing into her fingertips, her arms, her every nerve ending, _it's back it's back it's back_ the curse that she had endured for days straight and – how had she dealt with it before? she couldn't even _it's back it's back _remember –

At all –

And –

_AAAAAAAA_ a scream that quickly became verbal

A twisting, a thrashing, on the rough stone, and just flashes of rough cold images again when she managed to open her eyes in-between attacks –

a huge lightning bolt outside

the controlled smirk of Riddle's sculpted lips

the self-satisfied look in his eyes

Her throat felt like it was tearing from the screaming, and even when he lifted his wand and the pain ended, Hermione kept screaming, tears leaking helplessly from her squinted-shut eyes, her fingernails drawing blood from her palms.

"So, anything you'd care to tell me?" he asked silkily, kneeling down next to her huddled form as she suddenly fell quiet. On a whim, in a strange – almost caring – gesture, he gently moved her hair away from her face, which was flushed from her sobbing. "Come on, Hermione Granger – if you really have nothing to hide..."

"I never said I had nothing to hide," she whispered, opening her eyes, and Riddle was struck with the abject misery in them, but even more by the rage which burned behind that misery.

Hermione realized that he hadn't even noticed that she had managed to keep a grip on her wand. She very slowly rolled over, flicking her wand just so he would not see it –

It was not the spell she had intended – she had very little control at this point – but a door slowly formed in the wall, silently, and she kept her eyes very carefully off it. It opened a few inches, with no noise at all – she could see it in her peripherals – and Tom Riddle was very, very close.

She lay prostrate on the ground, leaning on one elbow, the watery results of the Cruciatus Curse invading her limbs. And he shook his head.

"It pains me, you know, to do this to you," he sighed, his dark, soft voice telling the lie so sweetly, so convincingly, that she could almost – almost – believe it was real, and just for a second, her eyes were not angry but filled with a desperate plea.

But she could withstand this. She had done so for days straight, in the Room of Requirement, and she had not gotten away then but she could at least pray to do so here... with that door only three feet away...

He flicked his wand and the desks and chairs all vanished. He hadn't even had to turn and glance at them – no, those brown eyes were firmly trained on Hermione's.

"Are you sure you have nothing to say to me?" he murmured, almost tenderly. It was absolutely sickening, the delicate way he held his wand, the mesmerizing grip of his eyes, the nearly sensual way he executed his torture.

Her lips clung tight shut, and as he lifted his wand again, shaking his head slightly, Hermione remembered how she had done it last time, and she did it again.

As his wand descended, Hermione clenched her eyes closed and sealed away all her thoughts, all her humanity, locking it tight into the recesses of her mind. The rest was just a blank roar as the pain descended again and consumed it.

She did not care about anything now. Not her dignity, not showing him that she could fight it, and certainly not her voice, and she rolled and thrashed and flailed and curled up tight and lashed out and above all _screamed_, and one of her hands managed to connect with his chest and knocked him back, and just that simply it was over again, and Hermione allowed herself to flood back, gone the mindless animal of torture.

Hermione's nerves twitched in relief as she lay there, her lungs rasping with frantic breaths, her outer robe half-on, half-off, her hair in a chaotic mess of static around her head. Riddle slowly sat back up from where she had pushed him, his face back to its mask.

And when she sat up a little, brushed her hair back into its place and said, "That's really not going to get you anywhere," she thought that he was going to kill her. Then she remembered that she was already dead, and her mouth smiled of its own volition.

_Merlin... she's smiling. She's smiling. I used the Cruciatus Curse on her _twice_ and she is sitting there and telling me it won't work and she is _smiling_ at me_

He couldn't even fathom it. If someone had managed to use Crucio on him when he had had the maturity of an eighteen-year-old, he would have been sobbing and telling all his worst secrets. It was perhaps this knowledge that was the most infuriating, that she was sitting there like she was better than he was, and that rosy-cheeked smile almost made him _not_ want to curse her anymore, which was strange, because as absolutely furious as he was, that should have been the thing to tip him over the barrier to complete rage.

_What do I do?_

For once, Tom Riddle was at an absolute loss. He knew for a fact that there was no Veritaserum in the castle, nor were there instructions on how to brew the month-long potion, as it was considered highly classified information, so he could not use that. Torture, for whatever reason, wasn't... working...? The Cruciatus Curse was Riddle's friend, Riddle's go-to, and he didn't know what to do. He just looked into her glazed, slightly crazed eyes, and sat there. It was more than weird, more than strange. It was absolutely unnatural.

Hermione sighed – all the fight had gone out of the air between them, as if once she had foiled his torture, there was nothing else even to do. Riddle was looking very lost. She shrugged her outer robe back on shakily, fastened it into place, and hugged her knees to her, holding her wand tight. Her mind was still reeling, still unstable, unsteady, attempting to readjust to the sensation of not being in pain. They sat in silence for a few minutes, just looking at each other, and Hermione tried to put away the temporary insanity that always accompanied such torture.

It was dark outside. The sun had set, and Hermione had spent her entire day in the erratic company of Tom Riddle.

"Tom," she started woozily, and he said, as if out of habit,

"Don't call me that."

She rolled her eyes. "It's your name," she slurred. "What do you want me to call you, Voldemort?"

It was out before Hermione knew what she was doing, and only after his mouth drifted open and his eyes got wide did she realize what she had said.

"Oh," she said. "Oh."

"How -"

But then someone appeared at the door. It was Mina.

"Hermione, is that you?" Mina said, and looked at Riddle with something close to disgust in her expression. Riddle turned, shocked at the door's sudden seeming reappearance, and then looked back at Hermione.

Hermione saw Riddle flick his wand, and suddenly she felt revitalized, fresh, filled with energy. "Yeah," she said, and her voice was back to normal, too, as if it had never been rubbed raw by screams. Riddle had used Ennervate on her to give her energy, leaving no traces of having been under the influence of his Cruciatus.

Oh, Merlin, now she had to answer to Mina about why she had lied to her. Worse, why she had lied to her and then spent the day hanging around in a deserted classroom with a Slytherin.

Hermione got to her feet slowly and Riddle followed. "Okay, well, we've been looking for you for two hours," Mina told Hermione, her voice pointed. "Godric's been looking on the upper floors, and R.J.'s been in the dungeons."

"I'm so sorry," Hermione said, and she was the picture of apologetic innocence. "I completely lost track of time."

Riddle almost couldn't find his voice, but he said quickly, "I apologize. Hermione did say she had to leave a while ago, but I'm afraid I kept her here." Hermione restrained a scoff. _You have no idea._

Mina's sharp grey gaze fixed on Riddle and softened a little. He put his hands in his pockets and waited a second while she gave him a once-over. Riddle sighed inwardly. _Girls – so easily swayed by physical appearance._

"What were you two brewing?" Mina asked, after taking her eyes away from Riddle with reluctance.

"Oh, Tom won't tell me," said Hermione. "It's a potion he's inventing." She turned and gave him a vague, perfectly pleasant smile. His eyes never strayed from hers, asking all sorts of questions he could not voice aloud. But now, he found, with absolute frustration, her face was as unreadable as his. Her large, hazel eyes captured him, tantalizing him with what was hidden behind them, in that fascinating, unknown mind –

"Sounds interesting," Mina said, "but I'm absolutely damn starving. It's only a couple hours 'til midnight, Hermione."

"Oh. We'd better go and find the others, then – I'll see you, Tom," Hermione said with a wave to him, as if they were absolute best friends. Riddle restrained revulsion. No one had ever acted so jovially towards him, but here was this girl, daring to do so – and she was not being viciously cursed by him; on the contrary, she was walking out of the classroom, shooting a last glance through the crack in the door, the connection between their eyes broken only by the solid 'thud' of the door shutting.

Riddle leaned against the wall in utter shock, in utter disbelief. How did she know that name? How on earth did she know that name? He had told only ten people that name, only two of them here – he would be speaking some very harsh words to Abraxas and Revelend about this, if either of them had somehow leaked something, by some freak accident –

Riddle exhaled. Or, maybe – maybe back on earth he had done something in his lifetime to put him in the history books? Perhaps the schoolgirl Granger had learned about him from a textbook...

His mind was swimming with far too many questions. It was not right that Tom Riddle should have questions – only that they should all be answered promptly and without question, and that rule had been shattered today.

With one last bewildered shake of his head, Riddle wiped the frown from his face, getting rid of his trance-like state. All would be answered in time.


	7. Chapter 7

**Millions of thanks to reviewers:**

**Imeralt Evalon, Ashlikescash, psalmofsummer, Galavantian, Anna on the Horizon, NougatEvolution, deator11, iamweasleyfred, Smithback, trickstersink, Vinwin, Serpent in Red, sexy-jess, ClaireReno, Nerys, bingbing196, LarkaSpirit, Senko Ryu, ScarlettxTristan, tanzainy, and pinkpaws-marauder.**

* * *

"If you really wanted to spend time with him that much, you could have just told us. We wouldn't have minded," R.J. said, picking at his breakfast.

"I would've minded," Godric muttered, shooting a mutinous glare at the Slytherin table. "Slytherins."

Mina shrugged. "It's not really like you, Hermione. I don't know."

"I know, I know, I'm sorry," Hermione sighed, exasperated. "Look, for Merlin's sake, I told you, it wasn't my intention to _spend_ _time_ with him. I just went down for dinner, and he sort of snuck out of the Great Hall looking a bit fishy, so I followed him because I was curious."

Her friends frowned and exchanged glances. "Did he look like he was up to something?" Godric asked, leaning in conspiratorially. "Because I know a few times in the past there have been some strange shenanigans in the Slytherin house—"

"No, he was just inventing a potion," said Hermione curtly. She shouldn't draw attention to whatever he was doing. If he didn't want anyone to know, he could want to silence her.

"So, ah," Mina said with a grin, "care to tell me why his robes were off?" She elbowed Hermione in the ribs.

Hermione winced in pain, shooting a daggered glare at Mina. "Shut up!"

"_What?_" said R.J. and Godric simultaneously, twin expressions of mortification on their faces.

"What," echoed Miranda vaguely, looking up from her parchment, "is so vitally important that you feel like you must yell in my ear, Godric?"

"_Nothing_," Hermione hissed. Miranda looked taken aback, and went back to her parchment hesitantly. Albus sat down, a look of mild surprise in his blue eyes.

"Well, I seem to have stumbled into something," he said, a small smile on his calm face. "I think I shall remain an impartial third party."

Mina snorted. "Like always?"

"Why, yes!" he replied cheerfully, and sat back to watch.

Hermione glanced at Godric, who was seemingly furious, and R.J., who looked very, very disapproving—and even a bit resentful.

"So... care to explain?" said Mina again, her grin widening, and Hermione's fading blush returned in full force.

"The fire under the potion was hot, so he took off his outer robes and _that is all_," Hermione muttered.

Mina cocked her head, her devilish grin never leaving her face. "Fine, fine, sure, whatever," she said in a most infuriating I-know-you're-lying manner.

Hermione closed her eyes. "Merlin! I thought you were more mature than this, getting worked up over me _talking to_ someone from a different house." This was utterly moronic. They weren't even getting mad for the right reasons. _Like, say, the Cruciatus Curse?_

"Hey, I don't begrudge you your attractive boy," Mina said, holding up her hands in innocence and digging back into her breakfast. Hermione blushed again, wishing she could control it.

"He is _not—_"

"Just forget it," said R.J., going back to his food, looking carefully controlled.

The next couple of weeks were difficult for Hermione. She kept getting strange looks from Slytherins, and she didn't know why. Surely, if something about her spending a day alone with Riddle had gotten into the gossip cycle, Araminta Meliflua would be at her throat more than any other Slytherin, but Araminta remained as distant and stuck-up as usual.

Hermione spent a few days in the Infirmary with Jared and Mungo. Jared showed her around his potions collection, which was vast and detailed. He had written books upon books about his various healing remedies – and that was only in the last few years. Mungo introduced Hermione to the relatively obscure genre of Healing Spells.

"Just as there are many different love potions, with fundamental similarities," he said, "there are many different spells to fix injuries, and they're all relatively similar." Then he gave her a small, black book, messily filled in with his own handwriting, and told her to knock herself out. Hermione spent much of the next day practicing the spells. They were so useful – she wondered why there wasn't a class in Hogwarts to teach that type of thing.

Hermione was careful to keep company at all times. If she was alone for even the tiniest second, she was terrified that Riddle would somehow seek her out, demanding to know how she knew his name. His real name. _Lord Voldemort._

Damn the aftermath of the Cruciatus Curse – if only she had been able to keep her cool; if only she hadn't been so _weak_. By most peoples' standards, enduring 'Crucio' twice in a row and only letting one thing slip was probably a feat, but Hermione had kept her lips locked shut back in the Room of Requirement, and she didn't understand how she had been so stupid as to lose that tight-lipped quality now. Especially now that she was permanently in the same building as Riddle, and under the pretense that she found no fault with his existence.

Oh well – at least, here, saying something would only hurt her, not endanger her friends. The only skin that she had to worry about saving was her own, and she could do that very well. Increasingly well, in fact, with every passing day, because Godric's tuition was steadily paying off. Hermione managed to conquer the Subligo jinx, which Riddle had used against her in their duel. Its purpose was to bind a premeditated hex to the one that was attacking the caster, and cast them both back at the opponent.

With her increasing magical arsenal, Hermione felt slightly safer in solitude, although she maintained her fears of being caught alone and being sliced apart, bit by bit. Whenever she caught her mind slipping back to her fears of Riddle, she hurriedly thought of Ron instead. His image was quickly becoming her strongest solace.

xXxXxXxXx

Hermione and Godric were out early to practice water magic by the lake. The sun was only just beginning to rise, and they both stood with wands at the ready.

"You're going to use Insumera to bind it together," Godric said, "and that's a sort of a twist while you're thinking the incantation -" He frowned slightly in concentration, holding out his wand and turning it counterclockwise. "- and then you're going to flick upwards. Okay?"

Even as he spoke, a small mass of water rose out of the lake in front of him.

Hermione nodded. _Insumera!_ As her vine wand flicked upwards, water dragged itself in a shimmering mass from the lake. She was surprised at how much concentration it took – every second her eyes flickered away, some of the water dripped off from her mass.

Godric said, "Keep your wand up, cast Pervitum, and draw back in a slow wave. Then it should move however you use your wand, in hypothesis."

Hermione gritted her teeth. _Pervitum!_ She jerked her wand back, and the water exploded into a fine mist. "Damn!" she sighed, wiping her brow. "This is actually difficult."

Godric laughed. "It can take a bit, but don't be afraid to experiment once you get that basic control. For some extra flair, you can even add things like – Oppugno!"

As he said the word, he lashed his wand outwards, and the water, which had formed itself into a tendril, flailed out at Hermione, grabbing her ankle and dangling her upside-down in the air. Her robes fell downwards over her head, revealing her plaid pyjama pants. "Godric!" she called. "Get me down, you idiot."

She let out a small scream as the water shook her back and forth. Godric's hearty, booming laugh echoed over the lake. "Say please," he called back. Hermione crossed her arms and scowled at him, swinging back and forth upside-down. Blood pounded in her ears.

"I _will_ hex you," she warned, holding out her wand.

"Easy there," Godric said, and flourished his wand gently, setting her back on the ground. "Okay, you ready to try again?"

Hermione nodded confidently. _Twist – Insumera! – flick – Pervitum! – draw it back, slowly..._

A thin finger of water slowly reached out of the lake. Hermione flexed it back and forth a few times, tentatively, afraid it would snap.

"Don't be afraid of it breaking," Godric said. "It's pretty sturdy, as I'm sure you just noticed."

"No more upside-down tricks."

Godric rolled his eyes. "All right, then. How about some food?" At his mention of food, his green eyes lit up with enthusiasm.

"Only if you promise to teach me something new after breakfast," Hermione said.

"Yeah, yeah, sure. I'll teach you a herbal transformation or something. Let's go!" he said eagerly.

A herbal transformation? What on earth was that? Hermione sighed and hurried after Godric, trying not to think about how much he looked like Ron from behind – tall, flaming red hair, adolescent lankiness that had almost turned to brawn...

Mina and R.J. were going through one of the rough patches in their friendship again. This happened from time to time, Hermione had found. R.J. got tired of Mina pushing him around, and Mina got tired of R.J. taking everything so seriously, and it just resulted in general awkwardness unless someone was there to intervene – namely, Godric, who was so loud and brash that he didn't ever really notice awkwardness.

In any case, Mina seized upon Godric's arrival with a brazen look of relief on her face. "Godric!" she practically cheered, and scooted close to him, chattering away. Hermione shot her a sideways glance, and then turned back to R.J.

"How are you?" she said.

R.J. surprised her by giving her a rare smile. "I'm actually quite good – you know Melia Trueblood?"

"Weather witch, yeah?"

He nodded. "She's one of the event coordinators, and she asked me if I'd like to join them," he said. "Their little team thing."

"Oh!" said Hermione. "That's wonderful! What exactly do you do?"

R.J. flicked his dark hair out of his eyes. "We meet five times a week, and just toss around ideas for the next event."

Hermione smiled. R.J. wasn't ever really vocal about his emotions, but there was a cheerful glow radiating from him that was atypical for her reserved friend. "So," she said, "Melia Trueblood, huh? How do you know her?" She gave him a sly, suggestive grin.

"What's that supposed to mean?" laughed R.J..

"Oh, nothing," replied Hermione with a saintly shrug. "Just—she's pretty, that's all."

"Yeah," R.J. agreed halfheartedly, "I guess. If you like Veela."

Hermione glanced over at Melia, who was sitting perfectly straight, her gorgeous blonde hair cascading halfway down her back. "She is a bit Veel-ish, isn't she?" mused Hermione. "In any case – any word on what's coming up next?"

R.J. shot a glance around. "Well," he muttered, "strictly speaking, I'm not supposed to tell you anything, but I think the next thing is going to be a concealment game. There'll be a few people who are assigned as 'it', like a game of tag, and they'll go around trying to find people and trying to guess who they are. When someone gets discovered, that person will also be 'it', and the last person standing is the winner."

"Wow," Hermione said, "that sounds... exciting, actually." It did. A creative way to incorporate magic. "So whoever's 'it' has to guess correctly who the person they find is? So I could use a Disfigurement Charm, or a Disillusionment, or a Glamour, and try and appear like someone else?"

R.J. nodded. "That's the general idea. Don't go spreading it around, though. I've already told you and Mina, and I feel like that's enough."

Hermione tapped her nose secretively and smiled at R.J., who grinned back in thanks.

She felt very unsettled then, because as he smiled at her, she felt a slight quiver inside her stomach, which was faintly reminiscent of how she used to feel when Ron smiled. So Hermione looked back at her food, continued eating, and told herself it was nothing, even as her mouth got a little dry and she suddenly felt like she was uncomfortably close to R.J...

"That is so much better!" Godric yawned, patting his stomach. "Ah. What was it I was going to show you again?"

"Herbal transfiguration."

"Right, that. We'll need some dittany, though, and a little Bulmon root, and actually, some Gillyweed, if you want to see something really fantastic."

"I'll go get it," Hermione said hurriedly, standing, relieved to have an excuse to get away. She couldn't have feelings for R.J., because that just wouldn't factor into her plan. If she was going to get the hell out of there, she needed to be detached, not attached. Not to anyone. No matter how friendly, nice, or attractive they were.

She descended to the dungeons. Snape's classroom always had those three ingredients – basic stuff, really, except the Gillyweed, and Hermione knew the room would have that from past experience.

She poked through the storerooms and found the items relatively quickly. She glanced around. The classroom was just as unpleasant as ever. But it seemed more pleasant than sitting in awkward silence with R.J., attempting not to feel anything.

Hermione wondered what people did when they fell in love here. What would it be like, constantly living in fear that they would wake up the next day and their love could just – not be there anymore? How could they manage that? How could she do that to herself, even if it were Ron? Even if Ron were there and she could grasp onto him like she was really still back on Earth and kiss him gently right on the smile –

"Hermione Granger."

_Oh, Merlin. Not now. Not here._

As she exited Snape's classroom, like a bad dream come true, Tom Riddle was leaning against the wall opposite her.

"So, what, are you just lurking in various hallways these days?" she said brusquely, wondering how she could get out of there as quickly as possible before he could hex her. She jerked her hand forward, and her wand flew out of her sleeve into her grip.

"I'm not amused by your humor, Granger," Riddle said, leaning away from the wall and walking slowly towards her. That slow, deliberate stride, the stride of inevitability, the stride that meant get-the-hell-out-right-now—

"Great. Then leave me alone, so you won't be subjected to my biting wit," Hermione deadpanned.

Quick as she could blink, Riddle's wand was out. She could barely even think, _Obsido,_ before a curse spat from the end of his wand and smashed into her thick, hazy, green shield.

He flicked his dark hair from his forehead and breathed slowly, as if attempting to control himself, lowering his wand. It was a minute before he spoke. "I'm sorry I have to do this, Granger," he said softly, and raised his wand.

Was this it? Was this the end? Was this the moment he lost all control and used Avada Kedavra?

But, strangely, he was backing away from her, towards the intersection of this hall and another one – and then he flicked his wand, but it was pointing at himself.

Deep wounds sliced themselves into his abdomen, and as if he were a fountain, blood came spilling out of the cuts, welling up like tears from huge, angry eyes –

And that scream.

Hermione had never heard a boy scream like Riddle was screaming now. It was so raw, a bellow echoing straight from his diaphragm to resound around and around and around the halls. He toppled to his knees, and then onto his back, arms spread-eagled, eyes squinted shut, right in the middle of the intersection of the hallways.

Hermione could barely think. _Oh, God._ What was she supposed to do, heal him? This was exactly what she should have been hoping for, that he would just die and get it over with, but her head was spinning and blood was pooling all around him, and she heard a faint clatter as his wand dropped from his hand and fell lightly onto the stone floor. All that Healing magic that Mungo had taught her came flooding into her mind, but she couldn't – she couldn't heal Lord Voldemort; she couldn't do that; she couldn't betray herself and her friends and her death... It didn't matter if Mungo didn't care who he was healing; Hermione definitely cared – and she couldn't heal _him_. Not Tom Riddle. Not the brilliant, perfect, evil Tom Riddle.

Suddenly, all in a rush, Hermione could hear voices. Lots of voices. And still he was screaming.

Hermione stumbled towards him in a daze, her feet splattering lightly in the blood – _Oh, God, it's everywhere_ – and she looked right, and saw that just down the hall was the Slytherin common room, and at least ten Slytherins were standing there in utter shock, looking as she stood over Riddle's bleeding body. Finally, Riddle stopped yelling, his chest heaving, instead desperately trying to get air into his system.

"I -" she stuttered, but she couldn't seem to get any more words out, and then a new scream echoed through the air. Hermione saw Araminta Meliflua's pale face make its way to the front of the steadily growing crowd.

"Tom!" she shrieked. "Tom!"

Someone else yelled, "Someone get Abraxas! Hurry up!"

Then, the crowd burst into chaos. Several Slytherins sprinted back into the common room, and Hermione could hear distant yells of "Malfoy!" but she could only really look at Araminta, who was staring at Hermione with hate that she had only seen rivaled in Riddle's eyes. And Hermione looked down at Riddle, knelt unsteadily by Riddle, her face far too close to Riddle's, her wand loose in her nerveless hands.

He tilted his face towards her. "Don't take it personally," his low voice murmured. His lips quirked in a smirk, and ever so bizarrely, his pale, bloodstained hand reached up to her face and tucked her hair behind her ear. She jerked back. His fingers were warm and wet and still completely steady, in control.

What a truly evil smile was on his rapidly-whitening lips. He had absolutely everything planned out. Hermione's eyes flickered up to Araminta, who was so red in the face from anger that she resembled a tomato.

Riddle's skin was actually starting to pale from blood loss. "Abraxas better get here soon," his low voice grated out. Hermione gripped her wand and stumbled backwards to her feet. _What should I do, what should I do, what should I _do_?_

It was so surreal, the clamor, the yelling, and suddenly Abraxas Malfoy burst from the common room, wild-eyed in panic. He sprinted to Riddle's side and knelt in the pool of blood slowly leaking from flagstone to flagstone.

"Oh, Merlin," breathed Abraxas. He peeled back Riddle's sodden outer robe and opened his shirt, revealing the deep, ugly gashes in Riddle's torso.

Malfoy waved his wand gently over each cut, and they slowly knitted back into smooth paleness. Then he said, "Tergeo," and the blood all over the ground, all over Riddle's chest, all over everywhere, vanished, leaving Riddle immaculate and pale once more. Hermione vaguely thought that it was strange that a Malfoy should know Healing magic at all – a bit ironic – but then she realized that more than twenty furious Slytherins were all staring directly at her, now that Riddle was healed, and she turned on her heels and fled.

xXxXxXxXx

He had done his damage, both literally and figuratively. Every time she met his eyes, now, he gave her an _I-won_ smirk, but she couldn't even look at another Slytherin without meeting cold and utter hatred. She'd had to duck a hex or two, and Godric had had to yell obscenities loudly at their senders.

The entire situation had been difficult to explain to her friends. They didn't really seem to trust her story, due to the fact that it was about Riddle, but the one thing that was never questioned was their standing firmly by her side, defending her from whatever insults and spells might fly her way – and for that, Hermione was utterly grateful.

The spell—it couldn't have been Sectumsempra, because Tom Riddle hadn't been alive when Snape invented that spell – was particularly vicious, because even though Abraxas had healed most of it, the internal wounds kept reopening. As a result, Riddle spent three days in the Infirmary, while Mungo and Jared did various spells and fed him various foul-smelling potions.

Hermione was upset when Mungo and Jared told her very concisely to "get out" the day after the incident. Apparently, both of them had heard – and believed – the rumors, and would not listen to a word to the contrary.

"Honestly, Hermione, I thought I could expect better than this from you," Jared muttered darkly, sifting through his cabinet for a dark blue vial.

"That's a serious curse," Mungo added. "Dangerous. Now we have to clean up your mess."

"Just... get out," Jared said, and Hermione complied, too hurt by their words to want to defend herself further.

Riddle was most pleased with himself. _Extremely_ pleased with himself, in fact. This had all gone exactly according to plan, especially Araminta Meliflua's reaction. She had come simpering to him every day, saying how she couldn't believe the nerve of that filthy Mudblood, et cetera, and how she was planning such delightful gems for Hermione's next few days at school. Every other Slytherin had, at some point, come trailing in, even if it was just to say they were glad he was feeling better and that they would attempt to make Granger's life miserable.

Perfect. Revenge was so very sweet.

It was irritating that Riddle wasn't close to any Gryffindors, because then he would have managed to alienate her from them, as well. A complete social leper would be far easier to corner. Most of the Gryffindors at least knew him as a respectable, kind, quiet sort, which would help them favor Riddle over the new girl, but not those close to Granger. Godric Gryffindor's protective nature was irritating, as were R.J. King's glances over at Granger every once in a while, as if to make sure she was still alright. Riddle presumed that neither of them probably knew the extent of Hermione's knowledge – her knowledge about many things.

Well, it was a good start. When people got miserable, they got sloppy, and Riddle had practically ensured that Granger's life—or, well, death; whatever it was—wouldn't be enjoyable from then on. He touched his torso gently – the curse was perhaps the most pain he had ever experienced, which was an unfortunate side result of the plan, but Mungo would have caught a whiff of it if he had used a Numbing Solution or some sort of anti-jinx preemptor. The pain had had to be suffered. And if he was going to get hurt, it was going to be only he who could make that happen.

xXxXxXxXx

"Hey, Hermione, I've thought of something that'll cheer you up," Mina said, leaning over the back of the sofa to talk loudly into Hermione's ear. Hermione turned. Mina slithered over the back of the couch and landed in a wild mess of long legs and curly black hair.

"Yeah?" said Hermione. She hadn't been cheered up in a while – she had awoken that day to find the dormitory overrun with large black rats, and she had an Aramintish inclination as to how they had appeared.

"Yeah! I've got an idea for the event thing R.J.'s been yammering on about," Mina said with a sly smile.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "I'm listening," she said.

"Polyjuice Potion!" Mina exclaimed.

"...not bad, not bad."

"Not bad? It's brilliant!" Mina crowed. "Neither of us will be caught 'cause the person will think we're each other." She flailed out into a lying-down position, as if basking in her own brilliance, and Hermione smiled.

"Only problem is," Mina muttered, "I've no idea how to make Polyjuice Potion."

Well, that was one thing that they didn't have to worry about – Hermione had seen a bunch of tiny vials of various potions down in Snape's storerooms. "Don't worry," Hermione said, "I can handle that much."

"This is going to be great," said Mina, rolling off the couch. "R.J. says the thing is next Wednesday. We should make a plan of action."

She and Mina decided to take each other's potions and keep extras on their persons for every hour. They also planned on Disillusioning themselves, just in case. The rules for the game showed up three days before the event itself, much to R.J.'s relief.

"Great," he sighed in relief, "now I don't have to go around shadily dealing you guys information anymore..." There were four people who were deemed 'hunters' – one from each House – and that information was also released three days prior. Hermione groaned when she saw the list:

Tom Riddle

Albus Dumbledore

Mungo Bonham

DeLisle Andra

"Who made this list?" Hermione asked R.J. angrily, rounding on him. He threw up his hands in protest.

"Hey, calm down, Hermione, it wasn't me," he said with a grin.

"These are the most powerful people in the school!" Hermione said in dismay, rereading the list. DeLisle Andra was in Dueling Club, and was the only person who had managed to fend off Godric for more than ten minutes. "Worst game _ever_," she mumbled.

Hermione delayed going down to the dungeons to get the Polyjuice Potion for a while, and when she finally worked up the nerve to be in such close vicinity to the Slytherin common room, she cast a Disillusionment Charm. _When did I get scared of everything?_

Also, Hermione was worried about Mina, who would probably be endangered by the fact that she looked like Hermione. The Slytherins were probably going to make vicious competition out of this game. Mina, though, wouldn't hear a word of Hermione's protest.

"Look," Mina said, "if you're going to look like me and take hits for me, I'm going to do the same for you. No questions." Hermione opened her mouth to retort, but Mina shushed her. "I'm the captain of the Quidditch team, and that is _final_, because I say so," she said. Hermione sighed. How was Quidditch relevant?

"I'm just saying that looking like _me_ is going to be a lot more dangerous than looking like you," said Hermione acidly. "People like you, and aren't under the illusion that you're a Dark Wizard. Unlike me."

Mina shrugged. "Whatever. I'm a Gryffindor. No matter what I do, the Slytherins are going to target me."

That, Hermione reasoned, was probably true. The game would likely turn very hazardous very fast, no matter what. She ought to trust in Mina's ability to take care of herself.

Anyway – Hermione had a secret agenda. She was going to find a way to tail Riddle. She had checked back on his potion, and it was still brewing, being experimented on. What was it? The simmering time was so long… was it a poison? This game seemed like the perfect time for him to do any dirty work – if he was a hunter, everyone would be staying out of his way, no matter how sneaky or suspicious he was looking. So he basically had free rein, but Hermione wasn't going to let _that_ happen on her watch.

xXxXxXxXx

It was Tuesday night, and the Gryffindor common room was buzzing with anticipation. Hermione, though, was still resolutely trying to tell her friends the truth of what had happened with Riddle in the dungeon, and they _still_ weren't... getting it.

"I'm telling you guys, he walked out into the hall, pointed the damn wand _at himself_, and cursed himself. I don't even _know_ the curse he used."

"Why would he do that?" Mina snorted. "Can't picture a Slytherin getting himself dirty just to frame you, Hermione."

Hermione sighed. This was where it got difficult. "He... _really_ doesn't like me," said Hermione.

"You two seemed to be getting along alright that day in the classroom," Mina said.

_Except for the Cruciatus Curse and stuff, but I guess that's just a side note._ "No," she said simply. "He's manipulative. And evil."

This wasn't working. Godric and R.J. were exchanging skeptical glances. "Look, Hermione," said Godric, "I personally don't care if you cursed him. I just don't see why you're trying to blame it on him."

"I know you wouldn't care, so why would I lie?" Hermione sighed, exasperated. "I'm telling you, that's what happened." She was honestly getting tired of repeating herself. R.J. kept resurrecting the conversation, and Hermione didn't know why. _So this was what came with partial honesty._

Maybe she should just lie, say she lost her temper and cursed Riddle, and then their friendship could get back to normal.

The thought incensed her. No. She would not stoop to that level. She would not let Tom Riddle undermine her life with one damned curse! Hermione buried her face in her hands. She wished this would just fade, already. It was far past time for that to happen.

She glanced up at R.J., who was surveying her, seemingly deep in thought himself. Then again, R.J. was always deep in thought. She just wished he would keep his thoughts off of her private business.

"You know," she mused aloud, to break the tension, "this is an awful lot like a Triwizard Tournament Task from Medieval times."

Miranda's face lit up with enthusiasm. "Medieval times? I love Medieval times."

"Yeah, each of the three Champions had to disguise themselves and stay hidden in Beauxbatons Castle for as long as possible," Hermione said.

"Oh, _that_ one," Miranda said, sticking out her tongue in disgust. "So uncreative."

"That doesn't sound too bad, mate," laughed Godric. "Especially compared to some other Triwizard Tasks that -"

"Well, no, that wasn't it," interrupted Hermione. "They let a load of dangerous animals loose in the castle. There was a dragon in the dungeons, I think. An adolescent one."

"And they set half the floors on fire," added Miranda absentmindedly.

Godric rolled his eyes. "Sounds like a great idea for a friendly inter-school tournament."

Hermione wasn't sure that this would be a great deal safer, given the people – or rather, one person in specific – who were going to roam around the school and try to find the participants.

She didn't sleep that much that night.

xXxXxXxXx

The entire school met in the Great Hall at ten o'clock sharp. Hermione had half-expected Riddle to back out of the game, but no, he was standing up there with Dumbledore, DeLisle, and Mungo, looking like he was barely concealing extreme displeasure.

"So, here's the deal," called Melia Trueblood from the front. She was standing in front of the four hunters, looking ethereally beautiful. "When I shoot sparks into the air, these four will shut their eyes, and you'll have ten minutes to run, get hidden, do what you need to do. You each have these triangles." She held up a small brass triangle. "They know your names, and if you let a hunter point his or her wand at you and say your name, that triangle is going to glow a really bright orange. Impossible to miss, even through clothing. That means you're out, and you become a hunter too. Got it?"

There was a general murmur of assent.

Red sparks issued from the tip of Melia's wand. The crowd scattered.

Hermione and Mina rushed down to the kitchens. "Here, take some of my hair," Hermione said, swiftly shearing off a small curl with her wand. Mina did the same, and they traded, sprinkling the hair into their various vials. "This is bizarre," laughed Hermione as she saw Mina slowly transform into an exact mirror image of Hermione.

The potion still tasted terrible, even when it wasn't Millicent Bulstrode's cat's hair, and it hurt immensely as Hermione's five-foot-three body was stretched out to Mina's five-foot-nine.

"Merlin, you're short!" Mina cackled as she shrank.

"All right," Hermione said, ignoring the slight on her height, "good luck!" She rapped herself on the head with a Disillusionment, and then wrapped a thin, clear shield around herself to ward off any Finite Incantatems that might come her way. "I'll see you this evening."

Hermione rushed from the kitchen, casting a hasty Silencing Charm on her shoes, clothes, and voice so she would be to hear. Tucking the small brass triangle into her pocket, she made her way cautiously back to the Great Hall.

It was a few minutes before the great doors opened again. Hermione pressed herself flat against the wall. Mungo came out first, made a swift left, and set out at his usual brisk walk. Dumbledore stood for a second, observed both sides of the corridor, and then ambled off down the right side of the corridor, whistling merrily. Hermione held close against the stone wall, blending in perfectly. DeLisle set off after Mungo, a determined air about her, and only after the other three had long gone did Riddle lazily make his way out of the Great Hall.

He strolled to the right. Hermione followed him at a safe distance, confident that this time she would not be caught. Already, from other hallways, she could hear signs of small duels and scuffles, but Riddle hadn't even stopped to try and find anyone yet – not even with a simple Finite Incantatem. What was he up to?

Hermione stopped still as Riddle slowed his walk. They were still on the first floor, near the Charms classroom, nearing a corner – and standing at that corner, de-Disillusioning herself as Riddle approached, was Araminta.

She raised her pointy chin in a nod to Riddle. He quickly pointed his wand at her and said her name, and a bright orange glow emanated from Araminta's pocket. Riddle checked quickly over both shoulders, making sure he was not being tailed – _if only he knew – _and said hurriedly, in a low, calm voice, "Any sign of her?"

Araminta shook her head. "Not here. Abraxas is on the next floor – check with him. Or you could just try 'Accio Mudblood,'" she sneered.

Hermione's eyes widened in horror.

_Mina._


	8. Chapter 8

** Thanks to reviewers:**

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* * *

Hermione's mind raced. What was he going to do? Mina wouldn't be able to withstand the Cruciatus Curse. She couldn't let Riddle do that to her, but she wouldn't be able to get to Mina before he found her – not if he had an entire network of spies.

Fear for Mina suddenly filled her. The Cruciatus Curse might have been commonplace for that dark, terrible Hogwarts she had left behind, but it was not here. As violent as Quidditch matches were, as violent as Dueling Club sometimes got, Hermione hadn't seen a single Dark curse from anyone except Riddle.

They were on the second floor now. Riddle made his way quickly towards Myrtle's bathroom. Bizarrely, in the deserted hallways, there was Abraxas Malfoy, resting against a classroom door. "She was Disillusioned," said Malfoy, "but I used Finite Incantatem and got her. She ran, but looks like she was headed to that passage up to the sixth floor."

Riddle gave him a swift nod and turned right. Hermione followed him up the dark passage to the sixth floor, and next to the exit was Revelend Godelot, who pointed down the hall. "Seventh floor."

The steady stream of Slytherins eventually led Riddle and Hermione right outside a place that nearly made Hermione go catatonic: the Room of Requirement. The last time she had been in here, she had been murdered. Wonderful memory. Her throat felt tight, and her heart beat fast.

Riddle paced back and forth, his eyes firmly trained on the wall, until a door slowly appeared – a rather nondescript door. _Shit._ How was she going to get inside without him noticing if he shut it behind him?

Riddle suddenly turned and waved his wand in a wide sweep. Hermione held up her wand and gritted her teeth as his Finite Incantatem smashed into her shield. Riddle seemed satisfied with the hallway's emptiness.

Hermione kept herself a few inches behind him, in painfully, terrifyingly close proximity, as he opened the door. Luckily, he swung it wide instead of just slipping inside, and Hermione had just enough time to roll in silently before he checked outside and shut the door again.

Mina was a smart girl, Hermione thought with a smirk. She'd created a maze, with high, weathered stone walls and flickering torches set in brackets. There was no ceiling, just darkness above, walls rising as high as she could see. She looked at Riddle, and he rolled his eyes, a stubborn look on his face. He stalked off into the maze. Hermione followed.

Hermione wondered exactly how intricate of a maze the Room of Requirement could create. Surely, Mina would have asked for one that was practically impossible, and at the end of the day she would just think that she needed to get out and the Room would accommodate her. Hermione silently cheered Mina's genius, but even as she was celebrating, Riddle took out his wand, and her joy slowly turned to cold disbelief.

He flicked his wand, and Hermione didn't recognize the spell, but a jet of blue light shot out of the end at an angle and leveled every wall in its way with a colossal 'bang'. As they made their way through the dust and the rubble, Hermione wondered how a spell that powerful could possibly exist – it had smashed through a dozen or so two-foot-thick rock walls, for Merlin's sake. Then again, it was never a good idea to underestimate the Dark Lord, as Hermione discovered seconds later when he raised his wand again and fired another 'Finite Incantatem' so powerful that she felt her shield nearly disintegrate under the force. His eyes were suspicious.

Riddle held out his wand again, and Hermione winced as it emitted another jet of blue light, this time at a different angle, as if it were pointing the way. It only broke through two walls this time, and they made their way over the remains. Riddle flicked his wand, and the blue light soared straight down the corridor, ending at the corner without breaking anything.

Hermione's heart sped up as she and Riddle rounded a corner. A dead end lay ahead. There was no passage to the right.

Merlin. Was Mina really at the end of this alleyway? Had it really been that simple? It couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes since Riddle had entered the maze, and already he was coming to his intended destination?

"Hello?" called Riddle, peering towards the end of the corridor as if he didn't know exactly who was there.

He flicked his wand again, and Hermione fortified her shield, wincing as it rattled weakly under the strength of his spell.

With dismay, Hermione saw a figure appear at the end of the hall as the Finite Incantatem reached it. The figure lifted a hand to its mouth – presumably taking more Polyjuice Potion. _No, no, no, no no no _get out_—_

From just a few feet away, the tiny smirk at the edge of Riddle's mouth was ominous. The flickering torches washed his pale face with warm light, darkening his strong features and casting shadows onto his eyes. He stopped about ten feet from Mina, the smirk fading quickly into nothing as if it had never been.

"Is that you, Granger?" he called, the perfect amount of puzzlement edging his voice, as if he were slightly confused.

"What do you want, Riddle?" muttered Mina. Hermione hadn't realized before now how similar their voices were, and she cursed the fact.

"Is something wrong with your voice?" Riddle said, walking towards Mina. Hermione prayed that Mina would just _tell_ him that she wasn't Hermione, would just get out of the game. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered right now more than her safety.

"Just a bit sick," Mina replied, and Hermione cursed inwardly. _Tell him!_

Hermione silently made her way to Mina's side, ready to deflect any curses that might fly from the end of that loosely held wand.

Riddle was always on his guard, always ready to be triggered by the slightest little thing. If Hermione cursed him, there was a good chance that he would fire off a spell at Mina in return. Hermione would have attacked already, but Mina wouldn't know what was happening, and if he attacked her, she wouldn't be prepared. There wasn't a way to counteract the Polyjuice Potion with any sort of spell to reveal Mina as being who she really was. There was nothing Hermione could do except wait for Riddle to attack. If he started to fight, then Hermione would jump in, because then Mina would be pretty much doomed anyway...

"Oh," said Riddle. "Sorry to hear that."

He was now no more than a couple of feet from Mina, who couldn't keep herself from staring at him. Hermione had forgotten exactly how strikingly attractive he was, and Mina had always commented on it – of course she wouldn't be able to resist just looking at him.

"Yeah," Mina said absentmindedly. Hermione looked at her. She looked exactly like Hermione, down to the very last light freckle on her nose, down to the last lock of incredibly voluminous hair. There was nothing to tip Riddle off that this was not the girl to curse. _Shit, shit, shit! What should I do?_

Worst, Mina was under the delusion that Riddle was a perfectly nice guy. She wasn't on her guard. She wasn't even holding her _wand!_

_GET OUT YOUR WAND, YOU IDIOT!_

Why hadn't Mina listened to her?

But Riddle was moving closer and putting away his own wand. Hermione felt a strange clench in her stomach as she observed Mina, who was clearly holding her breath, captivated by Riddle's dark eyes. _Every girl must be absolutely identical to him,_ Hermione thought with disgust. His awareness that he had such a hold over any girl he wanted must have been part of the reason he was so brilliantly manipulative.

Still, though, the glaze of admiration in Mina's eyes was something that Hermione was sure she had never had, and there was no trace of wariness in her face like there always was in Hermione's. Hermione was shocked that Riddle didn't notice the differences, actually, especially since he was little more than a _foot_ from Mina now – _what the HELL is he doing_ – and he could see every detail of Mina-Hermione's face in the torchlight.

"You know, this is an excellent place to hide," he commented, looking around at the maze.

"Yeah," said Mina offhandedly, apparently trying to talk as little as possible so that he wouldn't notice that her voice was not, in fact, congested, but someone else's entirely.

"I've been wondering about the other day," Riddle continued, his eyes flickering back to Mina.

She opened her mouth slightly, but then bit her lip and furrowed her brow. Hermione knew what she was thinking – she was probably wondering which story to go with: Hermione's or the one that was circulating the school. Eventually, she made a decision.

"Why the hell would you do that?" Mina said shortly, and Hermione saw a smirk lift one side of Riddle's mouth. Dammit! If Mina had just gone with the mainstream story, that Hermione had cursed Riddle, then he would have known it wasn't her...

"I think you know," Riddle murmured, his eyes fixed soundly on Mina-Hermione's wide hazel ones.

"Oh?" managed Mina, shooting desperate glances to either side. Hermione prayed for the poor girl, knowing what it was like to be pinned ruthlessly by that stare.

"Well, you do know more than you should, that's for sure," chuckled Riddle darkly, and now a vague expression of confusion made its way onto Mina-Hermione's face.

"What?" she said.

Hermione watched in horror as Riddle lowered his face to within six inches of Mina-Hermione's. Her mouth opened involuntarily, as if she were under the Imperius Curse, and her eyebrows lifted a little.

Restraining herself from cursing the hell out of Riddle, Hermione gripped her wand so hard that its design dug into her skin. She considered a good Petrificus Totalus, but no – that spell was audible, and Riddle had brilliant reflexes. She would be blocked and hexed in seconds. "Don't play dumb," Riddle muttered. "It doesn't become you."

And he lifted his hand from his side. Hermione drew her wand in a flash, but she saw that his hand wasn't holding his wand. In fact, it wasn't even moving fast. What was he _doing?_

Hermione's stomach swooped as she saw Riddle's pale, long-fingered hand gently place itself on Mina-Hermione's face, moving her heavy brown hair from her eyes, trailing down her cheek. Hermione swayed in place, transfixed by what he was doing even when he wasn't doing it to her. _Merlin_. Mina-Hermione swallowed, her face tilted upwards, her eyes playing over Riddle's face.

Hermione prayed that Riddle wouldn't give away too much to Mina – Hermione hadn't been planning on telling any of her friends much about her past. She already felt she had already let too much go to R.J. when they had talked by the lake that one day. In fact, she felt like she'd broken the cardinal rule of the Hogwarts back on earth – every person who knows information is one more person who can have that information tortured out of them – and that was not a good thing to forget. Especially now that she knew young Voldemort had the capacity to torture with as much skill as when he was older.

"Wh-what are you doing?" managed Mina-Hermione in a whisper. Riddle didn't answer, just placed his hands on the wall behind Mina-Hermione, trapping her there.

He moved his head towards Mina-Hermione's ear, his dark hair drifting slowly over his forehead, and he whispered, "Look, all I want to know is how you knew that name."

Hermione closed her eyes. This couldn't possibly get any worse. She desperately stared at the pocket that held Riddle's wand, wishing there weren't a fold directly over it so that she could just snatch it and then get them both out of there.

"I..." Mina-Hermione said, and given the look on her face, Hermione was surprised that she could say that much at all.

"Of course, if you don't want to tell me," said Riddle's smooth voice, "we could compromise."

"Oh, really?" whispered Mina-Hermione. Hermione was disgusted to see that look of almost-bliss on her own traitorous face.

Riddle slowly moved his head downwards, speaking into Mina-Hermione's neck as if he were some sort of bizarre vampire. "There's always a compromise," he breathed, and Hermione could see his smooth lips kiss Mina-Hermione's neck, and she felt a little sick. Then he spoke again. "Just do that one little thing I asked you to."

"The … er, the name?" asked Mina-Hermione weakly.

"No. The other thing. You know."

_What other thing?_ Hermione racked her brain, but she couldn't think of a single thing that Riddle had asked her to do. Especially not something he would be attempting to _seduce_ out of her. How much further below the belt could he hit? Hermione nearly snorted in disdain, but then she remembered how she herself had reacted to Riddle in that dark tunnel and she felt herself blushing. It was completely unfair to do that. To do... _this_.

Hermione saw Riddle's mouth press lightly against the edge of Mina-Hermione's jaw, but she couldn't look away, for some reason, despite the boiling feeling in her stomach and the way her clenched fists were shaking. Riddle's eyes were shut, masking what little emotion he usually displayed, and his tangled eyelashes swept out from those closed eyes, giving him a strangely peaceful look. Then he straightened back up to his full height, his eyes opened again, and he stepped back a little. Mina-Hermione drew in a long, slow breath. Hermione found herself doing the same.

"Well, you know where to meet me," he sighed, "if you change your mind." He smirked before turning around and leaving, leaving Mina-Hermione and Hermione pressed against the stone wall.

_Oh, she would meet him indeed._ Hermione knew that he meant that classroom where he was brewing the potion, whatever the hell the potion even was. She had so many unanswered questions. And Mina... Mina was looking absolutely stricken, staring after Riddle as if she wanted to sprint after him. Then she walked off breathlessly, leaving Hermione alone in the maze.

Hermione absentmindedly wondered what time it was. A few minutes later, she heard the door close, and walked towards the exit.

What 'thing' had he asked her to do? She honestly couldn't remember a 'thing.' Maybe the fact that he hadn't even attempted torture here meant that it was safe to approach him back in that classroom and ask him what on earth he meant.

Then again, she almost couldn't picture actually going back to that room, as if nothing had happened, as if she hadn't been in excruciating pain under the tip of his wand.

As she exited the Room of Requirement, though, she realized that she had already done exactly that.

She vaguely wandered around the castle for a few more hours, taking Polyjuice Potion as needed. A couple hours before the game was over, she ran out of potion, but she didn't really care much anymore. All the fun had been taken from the game. In fact, she was almost glad that she ran out, because it meant that Mina had run out, too.

On the third floor, Dumbledore caught her with her shield down, and her triangle glowed. With a feeling that was almost that of relief, Hermione became a hunter, but she didn't catch anyone, or really hunt for anyone, for that matter. At about seven o'clock, her triangle glowed red. She wasn't sure what that meant, exactly, but she went down to the Great Hall just in time to see Melia Trueblood award a big case of chocolate to the winner, a short, grinning Ravenclaw girl – one of the Marque sisters. Leila, or Lyla – Hermione couldn't tell which.

Tossing her brass triangle into a big pile by the door, Hermione went tiredly to the Gryffindor table to eat dinner, but she couldn't see R.J., Godric or Mina anywhere, so she just sat by Miranda and Albus.

"How was the game?" Miranda asked Hermione with a vague grin. "You look exhausted."

"Yeah, I did a, uh, lot of running," lied Hermione. "How about you?"

Miranda sighed. "I was in the dungeons, but this one caught me." She pointed at Albus, who smiled modestly.

"It wasn't easy," Albus said. "You should go to Dueling Club and show them your talent."

Miranda laughed, "Oh, as if," and helped herself to some casserole. Hermione stopped her eyes from straying to the Slytherin table, as anyone she might look at would probably give her an antagonistic glare, anyway. That, or she would meet a certain face against which she would have to fight absurd attraction.

Hermione hurried back to the Common Room after dinner, and was surprised to find her three friends sitting around the fire.

"Hey, Hermione, something really funny just happened to me," Mina said, with a hard edge to her voice that stopped Hermione still.

"Oh, really?" Hermione said uneasily, walking over to the sofa and sitting down. R.J. was very pointedly not meeting her eyes, and Godric was just staring into the fire. Mina, on the other hand, had an aggressive expression on her face and was looking directly at Hermione.

Mina nodded. "Yeah. I was just hiding in the Room of Requirement, and one Tom Riddle just _hunted me down_ just to say a bunch of weird stuff that I had – well, I had _no_ idea what the hell he was talking about, and he was all over me. Well, _you_, that is. He was all over you."

Hermione flushed bright red. By R.J. and Godric's blank expressions, she assumed that Mina had already talked with them about this, Merlin knew why.

"Anyway, bottom line is, I'm feeling deeply disturbed, more than a little violated, and I don't know what the hell is going on between you and Riddle, but I don't like it. My advice to you is to just stop."

The words were sharp and loud, and made Hermione wince.

"Why are you even fooling around with a guy from Slytherin?" Godric muttered venomously, and there wasn't even a trace of good-hearted humor in his tone.

"Hold on, _wait,_" interrupted Hermione. "Are you joking? I'm not 'fooling around' with anyone! Even if I were, it wouldn't be any of _your_ business, Godric, and you know, maybe you should try being a little less prejudiced against people in other houses, even if your last name _is_ Gryffindor."

That had been a little harsher than she had intended. R.J. shot her an uneasy glance, and Hermione looked down at her knees, wringing her hands together.

"There is such a thing as 'loyalty', you know," Mina said. "If not to your house, then at least to your friends."

Hermione's hands started to tremble in anger. She couldn't stand injustice, and this was just utterly ridiculous. "How am I being _'_disloyal' to you just by talking to a Slytherin?" she said, standing up sharply, her voice a squeal of indignance.

"It was a lot more than talking, dear," said Mina with pure condescension, and Hermione's lips pursed together, her face blushing red.

"I can't believe you!" Hermione hissed. "You think I _asked_ for that to happen?"

Mina rolled her eyes. "You know what, maybe I _do_ think that," she said drily, "because you've never given us any clear indication as to what type of person you'd prefer: us, or them."

"'Us or them?' What are you, _five_? Are you really trying to give me an ultimatum?"

Mina stood up, straightening to her full and formidable height. She advanced on Hermione, who did not once let her glare falter. "He is the type of person who would curse you for _being Muggle-born_," Mina spat. "If you're still associating with him, that makes me think that you're either masochistic, a liar about your heritage, or just _stupid._"

Hermione drew in a shocked breath, unable to reply.

"Oh, and now at least I know the truth about what happened in the dungeon. He really did curse himself. At least you told the truth about one thing. Good job!" Mina said the last two words with a snappy fake cheer. Hermione stared blankly at her. When did Mina get... _cruel_?

Mina continued, one thin eyebrow raised and her voice trembling in anger. "Now all that's left is for you to explain why he would care enough about you to cast Dark magic on himself. Though I suppose you're not going to tell us, because – right – you've never told us _anything_ about your life. What were you, a mass-murderer or something?"

Hermione drew herself up in fury, electricity seeming to crackle from her hair. "You are completely delusional," she said.

"At least I know who I am," Mina laughed coldly. "At least I'm not afraid to let people know who I am. At least I'm not a coward!"

That last word trembled precariously in the air, and it hit Hermione like a hammer. Coward.

She took a step back.

_No. You were tortured for three full days, but you wouldn't back down._ Coward. _You took it upon yourself to put your friends before you. _Coward. _You're not a coward, Hermione Granger! You were always a Gryffindor... you were always _strong.

_But then again... in the last month of your life..._

_There was that time with Bellatrix Lestrange when you turned tail and fled._

_There was that time where you heard a scream for help, and your heart beat so fast you thought you would faint and your stomach churned so hard you thought you would throw up and you _turned tail_ and you _fled.

_There was that time that you looked down and saw blood pooling all around your Disillusioned feet, but you wouldn't open that classroom door and you TURNED TAIL AND FLED._

Voices, endless voices, from every person who had ever hated her, poured in torrential malice through her mind. _Hermione Granger... maybe you are _nothing_ but a low-down dirty shamefaced know-it-all and a lying cheating traitorous Mudblood and a deceptive self-important shielded ugly unimportant strange incompetent unattractive blustery stubborn foolish naïve childish cold-hearted _COWARD, COWARD, COWARD, COWARD, _COWARD_.

She took a step back, attempting to stem the flow of self-hatred that was streaming over its broken dam, attempting to stem the flow of her tears with unsuccessful simultaneity. And she looked at the three people sitting in front of her – _I don't even know you – _and she turned tail.

And she fled.

xXxXxXxXx

Hermione woke up early the next morning and walked down to the common room, surprised to see that R.J. was sitting in one of the chairs. He greeted her calmly, a cautious look in his eyes.

"Hey, R.J.," she replied quietly, and sat down across from him. "Listen – about -"

He held up a hand, and she fell quiet. "Don't worry about it," R.J. said.

Hermione nodded, her eyes grateful, although there was a look of mild agitation in R.J.'s face that seemed to give away more than he was actually saying.

"Mina said Riddle seemed to know a lot about you," he said slowly. "Is … is that true? Because, I don't know... you haven't really been open with any of us, except maybe that one morning." His blue eyes flickered away from hers. R.J., the most non-confrontational Gryffindor Hermione had ever known. Of course he would be uncomfortable with the topic of conversation.

"Oh, believe me," mumbled Hermione, "Riddle knows _nothing_ about me."

R.J. seemed a bit reassured by the information, and the silence was a bit more content than before. Then R.J. asked, "I've been wondering this for a while – what was Ron like?"

It was as if a large weight had collided with Hermione's stomach, hearing Ron's name, with no lead-up or anything, just sprung on her like that...

"I... uh, I—"

She stared at R.J. as if he were from another planet. What made him think asking that was okay? How could that be all right in his mind? She expected him to follow up with something along the lines of 'if you don't want to talk about it, that's fine', but he didn't. He didn't say anything, just waited expectantly.

"I, um, I don't really want to... talk about it," Hermione stammered, running a hand through her brown hair, bewildered by the boy opposite her.

"Oh." R.J. raised an eyebrow, as if disappointed with her, and looked away.

"I mean, I don't really feel comfortable talking about … back on Earth," she continued. "You don't either, right? Because, er, you don't really ever talk... about it... either..."

R.J. stood up. His skinny body looked awfully frail in the pale of morning. "No, I have my reasons," he said. He was an Unspeakable, right, but he was _dead_. He could talk about whatever he wanted.

"Well, I mean, so do I," said Hermione uneasily. She really didn't want to sour things between her and R.J., as he was the only one who wasn't incensed with her.

"No. You don't understand," said R.J. sharply, and Hermione's eyebrows rose in surprise. What was wrong with _him_ today? "I have... reasons that I – can't..."

Hermione nodded slowly, and couldn't keep the expectancy from her voice. "And so... do I..." she said.

R.J. breathed out, hard, and looked up to the ceiling, and suddenly Hermione was mad. He was the one who didn't understand her in this equation. For God's sake, she had things in her past that most witches and wizards hadn't even had nightmares about, especially in the last month, when somehow a huge number of Boggarts had made their way into the castle _along_ with every Death Eater... Hermione shook away the thoughts. "Okay, just forget it," R.J. said. "Sorry I asked."

He wasn't sorry. And it was obvious. "I'll see you later," Hermione said, and walked towards the portrait hole.

"Maybe I was wrong," came R.J.'s voice from behind her. Hermione turned. "I tried telling them that you didn't have anything to hide. I tried telling them that we didn't have anything to worry about. But I'm not so sure anymore."

Hermione looked at him. "It's... it's none of your business," she whispered hopelessly. "I'm sorry, but it's not any of your business. It's no one's except mine." She stared at the floor miserably. "I – I have to go." She started to go through the portrait hole, but was stopped abruptly by the next words.

"So, where are you off to, to see your boyfriend?" asked R.J., with a very sudden and very ugly sneer in his voice. Hermione rounded on him, her mouth open in utter shock. Really? Her head spun. This couldn't be happening. First Mina and Godric, and now R.J., the first and only person she had opened up to –

She could barely even manage a furious "no-you-juvenile-GIT!" before she fled, seething.

How had everything fallen apart so quickly? She had been so safely concealed under a network of quietness, a quietness to which she had never been accustomed, but even that hadn't been enough, thanks to damn Tom Riddle. Hermione entered the empty Great Hall, feeling like an amiable breakfast wouldn't really be an option. She glanced up at the vacant teachers' table, wishing it would be filled up – with the lovable Hagrid, the ever-ready Professor McGonagall, the jolly Flitwick – even Snape, with all his usual sneering coldness, would have been a reassurance. But no. The only thing that was sitting there was a large sign that read the date. In this world, it was apparently November fifteenth.

And, looking around the deserted Great Hall, she wished more than anything that her friends and loved ones would surround her. This was not how it was supposed to happen, Hermione thought, as her eyes slowly welled up with tears. The good guy was supposed to beat the bad guy. Harry was supposed to defeat Voldemort, and Hermione and Ron were supposed to get married, and she was supposed to find her parents in Australia and undo that Obliviate, and Hogwarts was supposed to reopen – and – not... this. She wasn't _supposed_ to be trapped here, so why was she? How could this be fair? How could whatever God there was let this happen?

Hermione stared at the November fifteenth sign. Nearly two months since she had arrived... it had been almost half a year since she had been back on Earth, in real time. Half a year. That was... so long... _so_ long.

Hermione let the tears spill over, until they ran dry of their own volition. Okay. That was enough. Enough.

It had been a while since Hermione had spent all day in the library, but she did. She pored over endless book upon endless book on both life and death, but nothing was there to satisfy.

xXxXxXxXx

Riddle smiled to himself. It had all gone exactly how he had planned, as usual. After Abraxas had informed him that the Gryffindor girl, Mina, and Granger would be switching appearances for the day, he had managed to corner the fake Granger and plant a seed of doubt in the Gryffindor girl's mind about Granger's intentions. Perfect, perfect, _perfect._ He hadn't even seen Granger associate with her three closest friends for days. She sat with that quiet Miranda girl and Dumbledore in the Great Hall, but Riddle knew that Dumbledore was sort of a hopeless case to get on his side, and Granger didn't seem to be too close to either of them in the first place. It was all falling into place.

After all – when one was lonely, one turned to the thing that was the most interesting in one's environment. And Riddle knew that he was the most interesting thing, by far, in the castle. Especially, for some reason, to Granger.

The final stages of the plan were nearly complete. The potion, too, was coming along nicely, although it did need a little guidance in the right direction. In a couple weeks, though, it was practically guaranteed to go swimmingly.

Riddle gazed into the fire, his mind at ease. Except for something small agitating the back of his brain, but he couldn't really place a finger on it, and it was probably overlookable, anyway. With a brain like his, anything that he couldn't immediately identify was most likely useless.

Luckily, the hubbub about Riddle being cursed had died down somewhat. It had been useful in the first place to estrange Granger from the general student population, but it had fast transformed into a nuisance. It had required a little more finesse, a little more subtlety. He would work on the subtlety thing.

The only person who really still seemed to care about the curse was Araminta. Because she had some delusional idea that she and Riddle were meant to be together, she had taken his attack very personally. Riddle secretly hoped that she didn't do anything rash. Not that he wanted to withhold any pain or suffering from the Mudblood, of course, but it would be most inconvenient if he had closed off all paths except the one to him, only for it to be ruined by the flighty Meliflua girl.

xXxXxXxXx

Hermione awoke and let out a shriek. Everything in the room was covered with a thick coating of green slime. This included Hermione herself. "_Eugh!_" she hacked out. It smelled absolutely repulsive, and as her frantic gagging awoke the other people in the dormitory, more screams and exclamations echoed around the room.

Hermione scrabbled for her wand, which was safely under her pillow, as always. She wrenched the hangings wide and observed the slime-covered room with a sick sort of awe. "Scourgify!" she squeaked, waving her wand, and it was sucked away into nothingness, leaving only an unpleasant odor of remembrance.

"Really, that is absolutely revolting_,_" said Miranda mildly, as if it happened every day, and she turned over and went back to sleep.

"Hermione, this has _got_ to stop," snapped Mina, her grey eyes blazing. "I'm sick of waking up to this bullshit every other day. Just tell the Slytherins you're sorry about not cursing their precious Riddle, and maybe they'll leave us the hell alone."

With that, she snapped the hangings shut. Hermione observed the sullenly silent bed and swallowed. Those were the first words Mina had even spoken to her since the ones after the game – apparently, she was prone to holding grudges. Godric had given Hermione an apologetic glance once, but he seemed too afraid to even suggest to Mina that they attempt to make up, which Hermione thought was ridiculous. It wasn't even that big of an issue. In fact, compared to some of the fights she and Ron had gone through, it was positively microscopic. And now – this. Just when Mina and Hermione's relationship _didn't_ need any more strain.

_Thanks, Araminta._

The day only got worse. Mina kept shooting Hermione angry, expectant glances all through breakfast and lunch, as if she _actually expected_ Hermione to apologize to the Slytherins... Hermione should have foreseen the next event.

About halfway through dinner, Hermione looked up from meekly eating her chicken leg to see Mina standing, whacking her glass so hard with a spoon that Hermione was surprised it didn't break.

"Hello," Mina said loudly, her voice echoing throughout the hall. "Since Hermione doesn't have the guts to say this herself, I'll say it for her: thank you, Slytherin, for the daily presents we've been receiving, like today's, green slime, and that of two days ago, itching powder, and then, before that, giant spiders. Thanks ever so much," Mina said, glaring furiously at Araminta, "but we've honestly had enough, so unless you have the stomach to challenge me—or her—to a duel, don't be surprised if you start getting hexed in the hallways if this doesn't stop."

Hermione had heard enough. She dropped her chicken and got up silently, wishing she were invisible, and walked out of the Great Hall, staring at the ground, feeling an uncomfortable number of eyes on her. She hurried off into some hallway and leaned against the wall, looking up at the ceiling. Strangely, she nearly felt like crying again, but it wasn't because Mina was being irrational and furious. No, it was because she had seen the number of people who were staring angrily at her, even though it had been Mina and not her who had done something. More cover blown. Presumably, Mina was going on to say that Hermione was oh-so-sorry for cursing Riddle, even though she now knew perfectly well that that wasn't a bit true.

Hermione wanted to go back to the Gryffindor common room, but it would be filled soon enough with Gryffindors, most of whom thought she had cast a Dark curse on some nice, innocent boy, and a few of whom knew the truth but were mad at her for being too _nice_ to said boy, and two who were too meek really to care at all – and all this when the boy had _killed her already._

Was this logical? No. No; it was not.

Hermione bit her lip so hard she tasted blood, fighting back the tears that kept returning to her eyes. _Stop being so weak!_ She wouldn't allow herself weakness. She couldn't. She couldn't allow herself anything.

And with that thought, she broke into sobs.

xXxXxXxXx

Riddle observed as Mina took her seat again. He would not allow himself a quiet smile just then, but he definitely felt smug pride. He surely hadn't counted on further altercations with Araminta making things even better, but they had. Granger had stormed out of the Great Hall, looking broken. It had caused a twinge of something, deep inside Riddle – sympathy? No, he never felt sympathy. Oh, well – emotions were inconsequential.

In fact, Riddle would be surprised if tonight was not the night Granger cracked and came running to him for reasons unbeknownst to her. He smiled a little, then, as he turned back to his food, but no one around him knew why. No one around him ever knew why, but that certainly never made him explain.


	9. Chapter 9

**Warm thanks to:**

**KatieMarrie, Galavantian, efl614, Smithback, Not an animal, Remus lover, LarkaSpirit, Senko Ryu, madluv, bingbing196, tanzainy, belle, ClaireReno, Imeralt Evalon, Anna on the Horizon, loupyloupowell, xXBlueDazeXx, deator11, GabbyCat, sweet-tang-honney, HerLastBreath89, M3dUSa, 13Nyx13, Ools, and Natalie.**

* * *

Hermione sighed. It hadn't really registered until she had walked into that bathroom and not heard Myrtle's melancholy sobbing that there were no ghosts here – no, of course they wouldn't be here, since they were all back on Earth. It was sort of a depressing thought, that Moaning Myrtle and Nearly-Headless Nick and the Bloody Baron were all actually _more_ alive than she, especially since their defining characteristics had always been... well, being dead.

She looked up at the tall ceiling, her brown eyes questioning, as if searching for an answer in the multicolored tile. How long had it been since she had cried in a bathroom?

A while. It had been a while.

What time was it? Dare she go back to the common room?

No. Even past midnight, there would probably still be at least one person in the common room to stare, to give a searching glance, and it was far before midnight.

She had already been spending too much time alone in the library, and she didn't feel particularly inclined to return, for once. But she didn't just want to sit here, feeling useless, doing absolutely nothing of merit. The only thing she could be doing that might help anything or anyone was talking to Tom Riddle, and that was as unappealing an idea as she had ever heard.

Yet, of course, strangely appealing. Weirdly, bizarrely, and inexplicably appealing, and it was because of that irrational appeal that Hermione found herself trudging to that classroom, wondering the whole time why she was doing it in the first place.

It disturbed her to think of herself dangling off of Tom Riddle, as attracted to him as any Death Eater. In fact, it was highly disturbing. But then, it was that or go back to a universal humiliation from the Gryffindors. Or sit alone in Myrtle's bathroom, as self-piteous as Myrtle herself. Not exactly productive options.

She stopped outside the door and rolled her eyes. Why was she here? Wouldn't it be better not to risk being tortured, having all the information wrung out of her?

All she wanted to know was what he was brewing. That, and perhaps a bit about his inner psyche. The workings of disturbed minds had always sort of fascinated Hermione – if not Dark wizards, then Muggle serial killers. Why did they do what they did? There was always a sort of mental connection between the terrible crimes they committed and things that had been done to them. Perhaps Tom Riddle was the same. Or maybe there was some sort of reason why he thought he deserved to be above everyone else, and he would do anything to fulfill that reasoning.

Yes; this curiosity about him, even tempered by fear, was a powerful thing. Hermione swallowed.

She blinked as Riddle suddenly came into view. She knocked on the door hesitantly, and he glanced up at her. He looked surprised, which unnerved Hermione, because it meant that he wasn't surprised at all, and he flicked his wand at the door, which opened outwards slowly.

Hermione stepped inside, shutting the door behind her, and just sort of stood there. She didn't really have anything to say.

"Hello," he said.

"Hi."

"Er... what's going on?"

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "I would have thought it was obvious. I've 'changed my mind'," she said, drawing air quotes around the words.

Riddle was surprised. She knew specific quotes from the fake conversation he had had with the other Gryffindor? They must have discussed it at length. That was an unforeseen development. "Oh?" he said, drawing himself up and leaning against the cauldron's pedestal with a languid flourish of the hand.

"Though, actually, I don't know what 'thing' exactly you were talking about, back in the maze," Hermione said slowly, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Forget it," Riddle sighed.

"No, I'm serious. I'd really like to know what -"

Riddle looked up at her, and she fell silent. He said, "After I left, I realized that I hadn't actually ever asked you. Just thought about it. Extensively."

Hermione stared at him in confusion. Why would he waste his time thinking about a humble Mudblood? She scoffed a little and turned away. "Sure, Riddle. Whatever."

"Riddle?" he said, a small smile touching the edge of his lips. "What happened to 'Tom'?"

Hermione looked back at him, an almost-amused look on her face. "You said you didn't like being called Tom."

He stood, and any hint of joviality dropped from his expression. "Or, for that matter, what happened to 'Voldemort'?"

Hearing the word from his own mouth was a fearsome thing, but Hermione let the almost-amused expression stay on her face, despite her every instinct to cower in terror. "Let's put that behind us, shall we?" she said softly.

"No. Let's not," said Riddle. "Something happened – something since that King boy arrived here, something since 1971, and it involves me, doesn't it?" Hermione wouldn't meet his eyes. "Look at me!" he hissed, but she just gazed into space.

"Look, I'm not going to tell you, so unless you'd like to waste both time and energy dueling me, you might as well just not bother," she sighed, her muscles preparing to take a dive to avoid an Unforgivable. She nearly couldn't believe her own nerve. A hysterical laugh was building up inside her – what if Ron had seen her doing this! The expression on his face would have been priceless, and on Harry's, too –

But she was shocked by Riddle, who just sat down in a chair, and looked at her, and said slowly, "Okay."

"Er, right. So."

"Yes," muttered Riddle, and ran a hand through his dark hair. "Listen, what was that with your friend at the dinner table?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "She's just being petulant," she said, her tone clipped.

"About what?"

She let out a short laugh, her intelligent brown eyes wandering over his face. "You, of course."

Riddle raised an eyebrow. "What's there to be petulant about with me?"

_Merlin, I can't believe I'm saying this about Lord Voldemort –_ "She thinks we're _too close_, if you can believe that."

"Really."

"Really!" Hermione said, and conjured a puffy black armchair for herself. She slouched down in it, looking outside at the darkening sky. "Which is ironic, since there's every indication that you detest me."

"Detest you?" asked Riddle smoothly. "Why would you think that?"

She rolled her eyes. "Don't play dumb," she said, in a mocking repetition of his words to Mina. "It doesn't become you."

Now Riddle was very taken aback. Exactly how much of what had happened did she know? It was almost as if it had actually been Granger in the maze – but no, the voice and the facial expressions had both been completely different. It had to have been the other girl. But then... how...

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean," he said.

Hermione sighed. "Are you serious? Unforgivable aside, after sabotaging my social life by cursing yourself and blaming me, you go and pull that stupid stunt in the maze just to make my friends hate me? I'm not an idiot, Riddle, even if you'd like to think every person but you is one."

He raised his dark brows and looked back at the potion, flicking his wand to turn his chair into an armchair that matched hers. Yes, she was a lot brighter than he'd like to think, but he'd known that already. But she wasn't done.

"Also, don't think you have everyone fooled with your smart-quiet-studious-attractive-innocent-harmless act," she said, "because, you know, there are people here who don't just take people at face value." Her face was filled with righteous indignance, and she glanced out the classroom window again. Hermione supposed she shouldn't have been surprised when the one bit he chose to take out of that sentence was,

"Attractive?"

"Whatever!" she snapped, blushing bright red. A sneaky grin spread across Riddle's face. "Like you didn't know that already," she mumbled. _I _can't_ believe that actually came out of my mouth!_

"Well, no one's actually ever said that to me," Riddle said quietly. Hermione felt filled, again, with the weird urge to laugh.

"They're probably too scared that you'll Crucio them," she snorted, and – again! – the grin. It was nearly shocking, that Tom Riddle could even pretend to express any sort of pleasure. It was almost like he was a regular person. "How do you know how to do those spells in the first place?" she asked. That was a good thing to know, although there was no guarantee he would say anything, or if he did, tell the truth.

Riddle's eyes met hers, dark and foreign, a slow burn building inside them as usual. "I... have had to know how," he said.

"Oh, really?" Hermione said, her voice filled with disbelief. As if anyone _had_ to know how to use an Unforgivable Curse.

But he nodded, and Hermione got the weird feeling, somehow, that he was telling the truth. That couldn't be true, though. No one knew how to execute a Cruciatus Curse because they _needed_ to know. That wasn't even logical. "Okay," she said, trying to keep the utter disbelief from her voice. "I – okay." There was a minute or so of silence. Hermione stared at her feet, wondering why he could possibly have had to know the Cruciatus Curse... _why?_

"I apologize for that day in the dungeons," he said softly, and Hermione stared at him. A legitimate apology? Surely not.

"Uh..."

"It was juvenile and unnecessary," he continued.

There was a long silence.

Then, he added, "Plus, it hurt like hell."

Hermione couldn't hold back a startled laugh. "I'm sure," she said. "I don't even know what curse that was."

Riddle sighed with relief inwardly. She had accepted the apology without getting incredibly angry, which was far more than he had hoped for. He made a mental note to use humor more often; it seemed to loosen Gryffindors up. "Oh, I wouldn't expect you to know it," he said, still attempting to wring out of her whether she knew Dark magic or not. "It's Dark."

"Why am I not surprised?" said Hermione, rolling her eyes.

"Useful, though," Riddle said. "Lacera." His wand hand twitched, and Hermione nearly whipped out her wand and made a shield, but then she realized he was just telling her the incantation. _Why is he telling me that?_

"Great," she said slowly, "but, um, I'm never going to use that, if it's Dark magic."

Riddle nodded. "Okay," he said, "but just so you know, there's really not much of a difference between Dark magic and other magic. It's like the difference between shooting someone in self-defense and shooting them before they attempt to attack you."

Opportunity arose for Hermione to wring information out of Riddle – information she already knew, but that he couldn't know she knew. "Shooting them? Like with a Muggle gun?"

_Dammit! Why do I always let down my guard around her?_ Riddle was infuriated with himself. This was the second – the _second _– time that he had let something slip unintentionally. He had to be more conscious of what he was saying. He couldn't let this type of thing keep happening. "Yes," he ground out, attempting with little success to keep the anger from his voice.

"So... how do you know about that type of stuff?" she asked slowly.

He raised his eyes to her, unable to all the irritation from his gaze. "To my great chagrin, I was raised in a Muggle environment," he said, and he looked like he was choking back disgust as he said it.

"...you're a Muggle-born?" said Hermione, looking most surprised.

"No!" he spat immediately. "No, no, that's not – no. I was put into an orphanage." Damn that girl – more and more information was slipping from his hold. Why was he telling the truth? Why wasn't an adequate set of lies seeping into his mind for him to recite, like they usually did? Something simple, something easy? He glared up at Hermione.

Hermione looked a bit alarmed at the sudden venom in his eyes. "Merlin, calm down. What, you think _I'm_ going to care if you were raised in a Muggle orphanage?" she said defensively. "Me being who I am? It's not like I'm going to spread it around the whole school or anything."

Oh. Okay.

Wait – she didn't intend to publicize anything he told her?

Why?

Riddle was a bit confused. He always thought that people of intelligence, people with minds that could calculate, would always obtain information they could use, and use it. "Well, if you're not going to tell anyone," he said, "then why did you ask?" Riddle reassured himself that he wasn't the only one who liked to put information to good use – none of his followers would just go around asking people things with no real purpose either...

Hermione stared at him. He seemed genuinely baffled. Was he serious? "Look, you don't have to have an ulterior motive to ask about someone's life," she spluttered.

Well, when she put it _that_ way, it seemed sort of obvious. Riddle put his chin on his fist, calmly surveying the girl opposite him. He spent a lot of time with people like Revelend and Herpo, who weren't malicious_, _per se, but they definitely wouldn't ask anyone anything without a specific reason for doing so. The Granger girl seemed so... innocent in saying that, like she didn't know how to plot and scheme and get around barriers. But Riddle knew that wasn't true. She knew as much as he did about manipulation, as was evidenced by her confounding his every attempt to maneuver her into talking. "I suppose not," he mused aloud, and blew his hair out of his eyes in mild puzzlement.

Hermione nearly smiled. He looked like a lost puppy, his bottom lip pouting out slightly, his brown eyes having lost their vicious touch. She supposed that, what with all the unsavory characters he usually associated himself with, he wouldn't be used to someone asking about him just because.

"Well, in that case, why won't you tell me anything about your past?" Riddle asked.

Hermione fixed him with a clear, level stare. "You're you," she replied simply.

"Now, is that fair?" said Riddle with a smirk.

"Yes," she said instantly. "Yes, it is."

He sighed. Already, she knew him too well. He waited for a minute to ask the question for which he knew she wouldn't have an answer. "You know, why are you here, really?" he said.

_Damn. I have no idea._ Hermione thought fast. "Too much embarrassment awaiting me in the Gryffindor common room."

"Couldn't you just go to bed?"

Hermione shook her head. "I share a room with Mina, and I don't even need to express how awkward that would be." She looked up at Riddle. This was perhaps the longest consecutive time she had spoken with him where he did not have a distinctly evil look in his eyes – and he wasn't restraining it, either. He seemed genuinely relaxed.

The thought struck her – she was enjoying being in the presence of Voldemort. It seemed sacrilegious – the man who had killed her, feet away, was the most relatable person she could find in this damned place.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Riddle said softly, but just as Hermione looked at him there was a lightning-quick expression on his face that she didn't like.

"No, you're not," she mumbled. "If it weren't for you, everything would be absolutely fine."

His expression changed to one of near-indignance. "Look, the curse thing is long past," he said. "If your Gryffindor friends can't see fit to get past that, they need to work on moving on."

"I _told_ you," said Hermione with forced patience, "my friends think that we're too _close_."

"And why would they think that?" Riddle said.

"I don't know!"

"You haven't even _spoken_ to me in public. Ever."

"I know that," shot back Hermione. He was talking fast again, and it worried Hermione. If he kept pushing her, staring at her as if he already knew everything inside her mind, grinding at her patience with that dark, mesmerizing, unbelievably potent stare, she was probably going to let something slip –

"In fact, if I recall correctly, the only actual contact we've had since you were last _here_ was the maze, and unless you _told_ them about that, there's no reason that they would -"

Hermione interrupted, "It wasn't me in the maze."

There.

Shit.

Not that it really mattered – except that now she was running the risk of infuriating him – but it was out in the open, that he had tried to seduce Mina into giving him information she sure as hell didn't know.

"Uh... what?" Riddle said, a faint shock tingeing his features.

"It wasn't me," Hermione repeated. "It was my friend, Mina. We traded Polyjuice Potions so that we could win."

Riddle blinked. "Ah," he said. "Ah."

"Yes."

"Wait, then how do you know the conversation we had?" Riddle asked. Merlin, it was an excellent opportunity to ask her. He was surprised that she had just told him so easily, actually, after –

"I was there."

Now he was genuinely stunned. "Wait..."

"I was about a foot to your left, watching," said Hermione impatiently.

"And you didn't curse me and get out with your friend?" asked Riddle, looking back at her. That seemed like the most Gryffindor thing to do, just make a rash decision in favor of heroism –

The girl opposite him shrugged her slim shoulders, messing with her hair. "I thought it through," she said, "and I figured it would be better for everyone involved if I just stayed hidden, in case you happened to toss out another Cruciatus." Her hazel eyes found his, and Riddle held her gaze. Had she really been there, the entire time? How embarrassing, that someone had seen him shamelessly attempting to seduce someone – a Mudblood, of all people, even though it hadn't really been a Mudblood at the time...

"Well, that was very Slytherin of you," said Riddle with a smirk, and was pleased to see that familiar defiant look make its way back onto her face. He was becoming almost fond of that look. The reactions that accompanied it were always so amusing.

"No, it was not!" she argued hotly, and, seeing that his smirk was unchanging, she stuck her dainty nose up in the air with a righteous sort of 'hmph'. Riddle chuckled dryly, but it was not contrived or forced – it was entirely of his own volition. She was very entertaining to watch.

"So," he continued, his tone of voice suddenly almost sultry, "did you like what you saw?" He could barely restrain himself from smirking as her rosy cheeks turned as red as apples, and her eyes opened wide.

"No-I-did-_not_-like-what-I-saw" was what she blurted, and she stared intently at the potion, as if it would relieve her from the uncomfortable conversation. When she looked back at him, he supposed his expression must have slipped into one of extreme amusement, because she said, "What are _you_ smirking about?"

"It's amusing to fluster you," he said, "and it's _so_ easy." Her eyes narrowed into a frustrated, penetrating glare, but she didn't look away from him this time. There was a long silence. He was completely shocked when she said,

"All right, why do I get the feeling you're not surprised that it wasn't me in the maze?" Her tone was suspicious. Riddle blinked, opening his mouth to reply, but words didn't come out. Where were his lies? They had always come so easily, and now, just when he needed them, they had vanished. There was a long, awkward pause. Riddle could feel the seconds ticking by, but his mind was blank. His mind was_ never blank._

"You already knew!" she accused suddenly, an expression of discovery dawning on her face. Riddle cursed inwardly, but he just put an expression of indignance on his face and said,

"What? That's ridiculous."

Hermione scoffed. "I can't believe this," she said. "How in the name of Merlin did you find out? And then the so-called 'thing' you asked me to do – there wasn't really any 'thing' in the first place, was there? You were just – you were just _trying_ to make Mina mad at me!"

Hermione was really just guessing, but by the strangely-transparent look on his face, she could tell that she was absolutely correct. Of course Riddle would know that they had switched. He knew everything, somehow; it had been childish to assume that he wouldn't know this one little thing. That explained his feeble excuse about the 'thing' earlier. It also explained why he had been so disgustingly... up-front in the maze.

She felt weirdly relieved that the pieces had fallen into place so easily, but simultaneously she was enraged. How dare he play her like that? How dare he work so hard to sabotage her life here, as if it weren't bad enough that she was trapped here in the first place?

"I can't _believe_ you!" she spat. "I've worked so hard to try and get over my past by being a normal person here, and you have to go and ruin it! Why would you do that? You don't even have a good reason! You're just... you're just messed up!"

She buried her face in her hands in disbelief, closing her eyes exasperatedly. Of course he was messed up – he was the _Dark Lord_. How could she keep forgetting that? Was it because he looked like someone else? Was it because he acted like someone else? _Bad reasoning, Hermione._

Riddle was at a loss. What should he do? He couldn't quite believe that she had unraveled everything so quickly; smart girl. It had been such a good sequence of events, after all – but he supposed he shouldn't have relied on anything going completely to fruition, with Granger to reckon with. Now the thin layer of trust that he might have built up had gone back to square one. "Why would you want to get over your past?" he found himself asking, and she glanced up at him with something near disgust in her eyes.

"Because I miss everyone I left behind when I was killed, you idiot," she said.

He ignored the last two words, because the rest of the sentence caught him up. _Was killed?_ Hold on. Not just 'died' – she had been _killed_? By someone? Or something? Who would want to kill an eighteen-year-old girl? He mentally stored the information, and replied, "But that doesn't mean you should try to 'get over' your past. It's still a part of who you are." God, he sounded sappy and sentimental. Then again, wasn't that how they all were in Gryffindor? Granger was probably used to it. She curled up in her armchair, looking miserable.

"It's too hard to keep remembering. It would be easier just to forget it all," she mumbled.

It was pitch-black outside now. The girl's eyes were reddening, and Riddle was terrified that she might start to cry. _Then_ he would have no clue what to do. None at all. Usually, when people cried in front of him, they were sobbing out of unprecedented agony. "Would you like to go for a walk?" he suggested quickly, somehow scared more by the mere idea of her crying than he had ever been by any legitimate danger.

Hermione looked up at him quickly, the tears that she had been fighting receding in favor of slight confusion. "Sure," she said, with a belabored sigh. "Why not." _Since I'm already going to hell._

She stood, flicked her wand, and the chair vanished. She yawned – the fumes rising from the potion were quite soporific. Hermione realized that she hadn't even broached the topic of what the potion was, which should have irked her more than it did.

Riddle unfolded himself from the chair, and Hermione was instantly and involuntarily reminded of his physical charms as he stretched out to his full six feet. It was a wonder that he had gone so bad, with so much in his favor, and Hermione wondered why it had even started to happen. Curiosity itched at her, but she couldn't exactly come out and ask, because that would give away far too much, so she just followed him out of the classroom.

They walked in silence down to the main entrance to Hogwarts, and then Riddle suddenly said, "Look, I – I'm – what I've done -"

He couldn't really finish that sentence, because he wasn't really sorry he'd done any of it. So he just stopped talking.

"Was that your lame attempt at an apology?" muttered Hermione, as they stood in the doorframe. Both doors were wide open, and the warm light inside washed in a golden arch out onto the dark green lawn.

"Not really," Riddle replied. "It was going to be more of a justification, but I can't really think of one at the moment."

She looked amused. "So you can't think of any sort of justification... but you're _not_ going to apologize. How does that... you know, how does that make sense in your mind?"

He shrugged. "I had reasons. You're an interesting girl, Granger, and I don't see fit to apologize for any of it, because it was in pursuit of better acquainting myself with you." There. _That_ was the usual Tom Riddle response – charming, concealing, almost complimentary, not suspicious.

_Acquainting himself with me? _What was that supposed to even _mean_? Hermione leaned against the doorframe and crossed her arms expectantly. "So manipulating me and everyone around me doesn't merit apology."

"Nope."

"How about lying to me at every turn?"

"No."

"How about the Cruciatus Curse?"

He considered for a second. "The Cruciatus was a bit unpremeditated," he mused, scratching his jaw lightly with his pale fingers. "Usually, though, it's highly effective, so -" He broke off again. _Dammit! _There it was _again_! That stupid, conversational slip. This was why he didn't associate with people. It just didn't work. In the attempt to relax himself to put them at ease, he got sloppy and _stupid. _That was just _stupid_.

"'Usually'?" she asked slowly, but he was surprised to see that her face was free of fear. He almost missed that terrified look she had used to have when he was near her – not that he was particularly near to her now. A few feet away.

Riddle bit his lip and walked towards her, closing the distance in a subtle attempt to bring back that slight tinge of apprehension on her face, but it didn't work. "All right, I -"

But she held up a hand, and for some reason, he fell silent. One did not order around the Dark Lord Voldemort, and the Dark Lord Voldemort most certainly did not just _stop talking_ simply because some Mudblood raised her hand, but she lowered it again and crossed her arms and he found that he was listening. "Look, you don't have to talk about that," she said.

"Why?"

"Because it's private," she answered, as if it were obvious, and then she sort of smiled. "There are things that are more important than just getting what you want. You know, out of people."

Riddle's eyebrows furrowed. She was so strange. Nothing about her made sense – one moment it was as if she were like him, trying to get information out of him, and the next, she didn't seem to have any objective in the conversation. "Well, yes," he said. "It is private."

"Well, then," she said pointedly, "moving on. What were you trying to say?"

Riddle stared at her for a second. Her face was calm.

He usually never took note of people's physical appearances, but he did now, for some reason. It seemed like a bit of a long shot to say that Granger was an attractive girl, but she did have a certain charm in the way that she held herself – with confidence, with poise, with power.

He realized he had just been looking at her for longer than was necessary, and he said, "I, er – what I was trying – I…"

Hermione's lip curled in an amused smirk. Was Tom Riddle flustered? Because of a simple act of graciousness – letting him slip away without having to make some sort of lame excuse about all his torturous exploits? He certainly couldn't seem to find words. "Yes?" she said, enjoying the fact that she had the power in the conversation. But then he moved a little closer to her, and just like that, all the power that she had seemed to drain away.

His hands were in his pockets, and he looked down at her with almost-softness in his eyes, which was perhaps the most disconcerting thing about the situation. It was harder to fabricate certain emotions than others, and caring was one of them, but he did it well. _Then again, Tom Riddle does everything well._

"Look – what I meant was that I did what I did for selfish reasons."

"I know that."

"Well, one selfish reason in particular."

Hermione swallowed. He seemed to have gotten even nearer, though she hadn't noticed him doing it. Maybe it was just a trick of the light that seemed to be bringing him in even closer proximity than before... "Yes?" she said, glad that at least her voice was covering for her, sounding as bold as ever.

"I really would like to get to know you better, Granger," he murmured, and just like that, one of his hands was around hers. He was _holding her hand_. He was _holding_ her hand with the same fingers that had already killed her, the same hand that had tortured hundreds, the same hand that had tried to kill Harry, the same hand that held the wand that did all those terrible things -

For any other girl, that might have been the melting point. For Hermione, it was the exact opposite. "No, no, no-no-no _no_," she said, yanking her hand out of his grip. "Let's get one thing straight. You might _think_ that you can get any girl you want just by staring _deep_ into her eyes, and saying vaguely incompetent romantic phrases, and looking... like... like you always look, but someone's got to tell you that not everything is always going to just come easy to you. Not every girl is exactly the same. Especially me." She took a deep breath, placed her hands on his chest, and moved him back a couple steps. "Let's try this again," she said. "Legitimate apology?"

Riddle's mouth opened a little. How had that just happened? Had a Mudblood girl literally just pushed him around and rejected his advances? He couldn't understand her logic. He was attractive and there for her – wasn't that all girls wanted? Actually, wasn't that all boys wanted, too?

Hermione stared at him. He looked like someone had just kicked him in the ribs. Well, a mixture of that and complete disbelief. Like he was in physical pain because something he did hadn't worked. _Wow, he certainly isn't on the ball tonight. _So she repeated, "Riddle. Are you going to apologize?"

He shook his head slightly. "I told you, I don't -"

Right. He was probably going to say that he couldn't feel remorse, or something. Hermione nearly rolled her eyes, but then a thought struck her mind, triggered by the mere thought of that word – remorse. R.J. had said that it was the only way to fix a broken soul... _Could_ Riddle actually feel remorse? Right now, he was seven horcrux fragments loosely held together – Nagini was back on earth, still wreaking havoc, but the other seven horcruxes were all here, destroyed... the original six, plus the unintentional one, which had embedded itself in Harry. Would feeling remorse heal him – join the pieces back together? It was an interesting thought. Hermione knew she couldn't find something like that in the library, but she would ask Miranda and Albus about it, since she and R.J. weren't speaking, and maybe she could come up with some sort of theory...

"I'm not going to say I'm sorry to you," he said simply, and Hermione blinked calmly, coming back to her senses.

"Then we're done here," she answered coldly, and she turned on her heel and started to walk back into the castle, but she felt Riddle's hand grab hers again and she froze.

"I'm not going to apologize," said his quiet, smooth voice from behind her, "but what I said about getting to know you wasn't just some cheap pseudo-romantic shot."

Strangely, as Riddle said the words, he felt like they were almost true. She slowly turned back to him, one thin brown eyebrow raised. He took a breath. What he said now could ruin all his work, or help it forward. It was a dangerous precipice to walk. "I know it's asking a lot, but I'd like to leave the past behind us."

He felt like he had said exactly the right thing. The look on her face indicated that she was taking something out of the words that he didn't know, but whatever it was, she took her hand out of his gently and didn't walk away. She had cool, small hands, he thought absentmindedly – a nice, calm feel to her dry skin, as if gentle water rushed behind it.

There was more context to that phrase than he would _ever_ know, Hermione thought, amused. It was like whatever God there was had made him say that just to get to her. She waited a second, looking up at the ceiling, and then back at Riddle. Then he said, "So, would you like to take that walk?"

A small smile made its way onto her lips. "Which way? It's really quite dark out."

So it was.

"We can just stay here, if you'd like," offered Riddle. "Or, I mean, if you'd like to go back to your common room – it's a bit late."

"No, I still don't really... want to go back there," mumbled Hermione. "No thanks to _you_." She punched him lightly on the arm, and his face filled with an almost laughable horror, as if the gesture of familiarity were deadly poison.

Riddle took a couple steps away from her, shooting an uneasy glance in her direction. Then he took out his wand and waved it. The two squashy black armchairs rematerialized in the doorway, facing the encroaching darkness of outside. Hermione flopped down onto the chair to the right, and he perched himself on the one to the left.

They talked about frivolous things – mostly about Hogwarts and how it had changed, about teachers, about classes, about history, politics, social trends, some about Diagon Alley. Things that they could talk about safely, without being at each others' necks. And Hermione found herself thinking that it was almost... not that bad, speaking with someone who – at _last –_ could match her intelligence, and she almost felt that he might have been having a not-that-bad time of it himself. A thestral or two rose into the sky above the Forbidden Forest, flat black against the blinking stars, and both of the people sitting in the armchairs noticed, but neither brought up the fact that they had seen death, because neither really wanted to talk about it.

Meanwhile, a very angry Araminta Meliflua, who had been standing just behind the door to the Great Hall the entire time, seethed with rage, and snuck down to the Slytherin common room soundlessly.

Also, a very jealous and very talkative pair of Ravenclaw twin sisters stood at the top of the entrance to the Grand Staircase, exchanging _very_ interested looks.


	10. Chapter 10

Hermione didn't know how, or why, but the next couple of days brought a bit of a shock. Rumors were circulating, as idiotic as rumors usually were, that she and Tom Riddle were somehow romantically involved. This, of course, yielded nasty looks from many, like the Marque sisters, who were jealous, and more from others like Godric who just disapproved.

She caught R.J. looking at her apologetically from down the table a couple of times, but he never seemed to muster up the courage to sit with her, Miranda, and Albus, who had completely separated themselves from the others. Hermione missed Mina, Godric and R.J. immensely, but she refused to let that show.

"You know," she had said to Albus and Miranda, "if you want to go and sit with them, you can. It doesn't matter to me."

Miranda shook her head. "They're being irrational, and I wouldn't like to let you sit all alone," she said, and went back to reading. Albus was stirring his tea absentmindedly with his wand, his kind blue eyes silently agreeing.

But now Hermione was afraid that she might have lost a hold on the friendship of her other three friends permanently, which was idiotic, because when Hermione thought back to their fight, she couldn't remember it being more than five minutes long. How had two months of friendship shattered in five minutes? All she knew was that now those stupid rumors were going around, Mina and Godric kept shooting vehement glances, and Hermione couldn't respond because of her own pride. After all, if they were going to be as childish as to believe the words of others without even asking her, then she didn't need them.

Of course, she did need them.

Hermione didn't know where the rumors had sprung from, but they were incredibly irritating. No one said anything to her face, but the burning glares she was getting from Araminta said it all – there were no friendly feelings between girls when it came to Tom Riddle. Even some Gryffindor girls seemed resentful, which downright stunned Hermione. Surely one single boy couldn't be the source of strife in a house that the boy wasn't even _in_?

Well, apparently, it could.

That night that Hermione had spent speaking with Riddle seemed like a faraway memory, although it had been just two days ago. Hermione hadn't really had the heart to go back to her studies, so she had tried to teach herself how to fly for the past couple days. She knew the basics, of course, but it was always good to know how to fly _well_, and it was one thing that she had never really gotten a grip on. She intended to try again that day, provided that there weren't any teams attempting to practice. Hufflepuff didn't have enough people to have a team, but Ravenclaw had started one just recently, and so they were practicing a lot.

It was nearing the end of November, and, as a result, Melia Trueblood had seen fit to cast a snowstorm overnight that smothered the entirety of the Hogwarts grounds in two feet of snow. Hermione thought that it was overkill – she had to take out her wand and melt her way all over the grounds, which was inconvenient. Also, Melia had made it below freezing so the snow would stick, which wasn't great for learning how to fly since it was absolutely frigid when one was clenching a broomstick's cold handle.

"So, I'm going to keep trying to fly today," Hermione said to Albus and Miranda.

"That sounds wonderful," said Dumbledore. "Miranda and I are baking this afternoon, so we should all have a terribly-made cake to eat at the end of the day. We'll be in the kitchen, if you want to come join us."

Hermione laughed. "Sounds lovely," she said. "I'll see you later." Miranda waved absentmindedly as Hermione left the Great Hall.

She huddled inside her robes, which were not quite adequate for the outside weather. Her wand stuck out of her sleeve, though her hand was inside, huddling for warmth. A funnel of steaming hot air attacked the snow which had caved back in on the path she had carved yesterday.

The walk to the Quidditch pitch was irritatingly long, but with a quick 'Impervius' on her clothes, she managed to remain relatively warm and dry. She sighed, a puff of white air in the clear sky, and took a Nimbus 2001 off the rack of brooms.

It was just hard to imagine, usually – a broom being able to fly through the air, like Muggles had always dreamed about, and it was partly that disbelief that made Hermione hesitant to fly.

She started with the usual "Up" command, and was pleased to see that her broom made its way steadily up into her palm. She supposed that it would never leap upwards like Harry's had once done, but she would be very satisfied with being a fairly-decent-level flier. That was all one really needed, after all.

A lump caught in her throat as she thought about the matches that Lee Jordan had commentated, how McGonagall had chided him so often for insulting the Slytherins. Ron sitting next to her and yelling for Harry, making loud, rude comments of his own. Swallowing the lump, she blamed it on the cold, and placed the broom tail-first on the ground, sticking one foot onto its stand and kicking off harder than usual.

The freezing air attacked Hermione as she rushed upward, placing her other foot unsteadily on the stand. The broom teetered a bit, and Hermione let out a small squeak, but urged her broom forward determinedly.

She slowed to a stop about fifty feet off the ground. Heights had never particularly bothered her, and her hands were tight on the broom, her wand in her pocket. There was no danger up here.

Hesitantly, Hermione leaned a little to the left. The sensitive broom started to move forwards again, turning to the left in a wide rotation. She sat back up and pointed the handle downwards, and the broom slid into a descent, a little steeper than Hermione had intended. She gripped the broom tighter instinctively, leaning down closer to the handle so she wouldn't fall, and the fall steepened into a swift dive, sending her barreling down through the air. Her eyes widened in shock again. _Okay, Hermione Granger you have this under control_, she thought, feeling exactly the opposite as the wind grappled at her eyes and yanked on her tangled brown hair.

She leaned away from the handle again, though her instincts cried for the opposite, and pulled up on the dark wood. A feeling of watery relief flooded her as the broom leveled out and stopped diving.

Navigating upwards again, Hermione's eyes wandered over the grounds. Over by the frozen lake were a few Hufflepuffs who looked like they were having a picnic on the ice, and by the Whomping Willow there were a couple of people who seemed to be stupidly baiting the tree. In the school, the Gryffindor common room window was brightly lit up a warm golden-yellow in the grey wintry sky. A few people were making their way over to Hogsmeade, and their laughter echoed up towards Hermione.

She could almost imagine that she was back where she belonged.

Striking the thought from her mind, Hermione leaned down on the broom, setting off at a comfortable pace towards the Forbidden Forest. She wondered what it would have been like if she, Harry and Ron had never gotten themselves into dangerous things involving Hagrid, wondered what it would have been like just to have been a _normal_ student, who never did things she wasn't supposed to, never broke any rules, like she had originally planned upon arriving.

Would the Forbidden Forest even be dangerous anymore, if there weren't creatures like Centaurs there? Then again – those Thestrals that had risen into the night sky... although Thestrals weren't dangerous, if they weren't the only beasts in there...

How were the Thestrals there, even? There were a bunch of strange superstitions surrounding Thestrals, because of the 'death thing', as Hagrid had once said, but she didn't know that they could transcend death, or whatever it was that they were doing by existing in this world.

Hermione flew over the lake, looking down at the swirling patterns in the ice. She wondered what the Slytherin common room looked like when the lake was frozen and snowed over. After all, it was usually dimly greenish, due to the lake water – when that was frozen and had a coat of snow, did it just get opaque, and did it get dark down there? The only light would be the fires, then. That would be depressing, not to be able to see the stars...

She flew back towards the Quidditch pitch, intending to practice a few simple maneuvers – like a barrel roll. One could always use a handy barrel roll. But, as she flew over the stands, she saw a broom randomly floating in the air – _What is that doing there?_ – and, twenty feet below it on the white ground, she realized that there was a figure on the pitch, unmoving, face-down, a thin trail of red leaking out from its face.

Oh, God.

Hermione navigated herself into a wobbly dive, getting to the ground as fast as she could. She ran to the person and crouched by him. He was dressed in Slytherin robes, and as Hermione attempted to turn him over to see his face, his hat fell off, unveiling a mop of shining blond hair. _Malfoy!_ She gritted her teeth and pulled, and he flopped onto his back. Merlin, he was heavy.

He was unconscious, and his nose was broken. "Ennervate," said Hermione, whipping out her wand, and regretted it. He came back to life with a deafening yell of pain.

"Oh, _Merlin,_" grunted Malfoy, his eyes rolling back in his head in agony. Hermione fixed his nose, and he wriggled a bit in surprise, reaching up with his left hand to touch it. Hermione's wand siphoned off the blood, and it was only then that he looked up at her.

"Granger?" he asked dimly, squinting in the sunlight.

She nodded. "I presume you fell?" she said, pointing up at his floating broom. He grunted a 'yes' in response, but as he attempted to sit up again, his face contorted in sudden pain. He reached for his wand, but even as he gripped it, he grimaced again, so he just dropped his arms by his sides and lay unmoving.

"Merlin, how many bones did you break?" Hermione said dryly.

"Lots," he moaned, holding out his right hand. Hermione tapped each finger with her wand, checking for fractures, and as she came to the thumb, he sucked in a sharp breath.

She shook her head. "Okay, hold on," she said, and tapped it again. He let out a strangled noise as the bone clicked audibly into place.

"You probably cracked a couple of ribs," muttered Hermione, surveying his torso. At least the skin hadn't broken – probably just a few simple fractures. Twenty feet wasn't a huge distance to fall; thank God it hadn't been fifty. Abraxas looked up at her with distrust on his face.

He opened his mouth, shut it again, and finally said, "Why are you helping me?"

"Because you're lying here in excruciating pain?" said Hermione, as if speaking to a complete idiot.

"Good reason," he mumbled, and brushed back his blond hair proudly. _A Malfoy through and through_, Hermione thought wryly.

It was odd to look directly at Abraxas Malfoy, because he looked strangely like Draco. The eyes were the exact same light shade of grey, the hair the exact white-blond hue. The face shape was the same – a smooth oval – but Draco's pointed features were absent. Abraxas had a blunt nose, thick eyebrows, and a mouth that was curved in a perpetual almost-smile, which was odd to see on a Malfoy. He was about the same height as Draco, but far broader in the shoulders, and his pale skin and blond hair were almost painful to look at in the wintry sun when coupled with the shimmer of the other world.

"Do you know how to fix cracked ribs?" Abraxas said through gritted teeth. Hermione blinked and came back to her senses. He probably was in quite a lot of pain.

"Sure."

He opened his black robes, and Hermione scooted up to sit by his chest. She started to unbutton his white shirt hesitantly, casting a glance back at his face. There was a slight blush on his cheeks, and he wasn't looking at her, but instead stubbornly staring into the sky. So, this was the man who had taught Lucius Malfoy how to hate, how to discriminate against those of 'lesser' blood. It was an extremely unappealing thought, and a rush of dislike ran through Hermione.

"Tell me when it hurts," she said softly, placing a hand at the bottom of his ribcage on the left and slowly applying pressure. About halfway up, he let out an animal groan. Hermione tapped the spot, thinking, _Bracchus Novum._ Something sealed up with a tiny hiss beneath his pale skin.

"I think there's one more on the other side," murmured Malfoy. Hermione slowly put her hand on the left side of his chest. _God, this is uncomfortable. _Really_ uncomfortable._

She started pressing down. "So, er, why are you out here without your team?" she asked. She almost expected a sneering retort, but was surprised when he gave her a civil answer.

"Oh, they should actually be here any second – I just came early because I'm the team captain, and I always like to get a jump on a good pr – _ow_." He drew in a breath through his teeth. "Yes, that's it, right there." Hermione tapped the spot with her wand, and the look of relief on his face was immensely satisfying to see. "I think that's everything," he said.

"I'm just going to press down really quick on both sides, just to make sure there's nothing else, okay?" she mumbled, blushing and wishing she would stop making this so _awkward –_

"Sure," he answered, and it looked like he was attempting to restrain a smirk, which, to his credit, was more than Draco had ever done. It was quiet outside, a hush cast everywhere by the snow, and Malfoy looked oddly peaceful as he shut his eyes and waited. Hermione sighed inwardly and placed both her small hands on his warm chest. Her light tan contrasted starkly with his paler skin – _just like it used to be with Ron –_ and she lightly pushed, moving her hands methodically downwards.

"Abraxas, I thought you had standards," came a sneering voice, and Hermione snatched her hands off him as if he were a hot stove, whirling around to see who it was. It was the rest of the Slytherin Quidditch team – Araminta Meliflua, her friend Barda, Herpo the Foul, Revelend Godelot, Briene Flint, Kenji Takahashi, and Andre Taylor. It was no surprise to Hermione that Araminta had said the words. Hermione just scowled in response, opening her mouth to defend herself, but before she could, Malfoy had done it for her.

"Oh, shut up, Araminta," he laughed, again surprising Hermione with his apparently easygoing nature. He sat up and started wringing out his robes, which were soaked with melted snow. "I fell off my broom and broke a couple of ribs." He pointed up at his Nimbus 2001, which was still hovering hopefully in the air.

"Lovely," said Araminta, and the Slytherin team approached him and Hermione. "So, Granger, what – is Tom not good enough for you? Going to go ahead and prey on poor Malfoy here?"

"It's like she didn't hear anything you just said," Hermione said to Abraxas.

"Well, I mean, it's your choice, Abraxas," continued Araminta casually, picking at a long nail, "but after you broke up with Erielle, I'd say this... thing is definitely a step down."

_When did I get wrapped up in the world of Slytherin gossip?_ Hermione found herself wondering. "Look, I was just fixing your captain's ribs, unless you'd rather I just left him on the ground unconscious next time -"

"If the alternative is getting his naked chest touched by a dirty Mudblood, I'd reckon a little pain might be a good option," snapped Araminta, and Hermione fell silent, secretly hurt by the words. They oughtn't to have hurt, not after so long and so much, but the hate always found new places in her heart to wound. The rest of the Slytherin team, who had been laughing at Araminta's comments, got sort of quiet and shifted a bit uncomfortably, with the exception of maybe Barda.

"All right; you know what, I'm not even going to deal with this right now," sighed Hermione, getting to her feet. Out of her peripherals she saw Araminta drawing her wand, and quick as a flash she had drawn her own. With a simple flick of Hermione's wrist, Araminta's wand was ten feet away, on the ground. "No, you're _not_ going to attack me while I'm not expecting anything," Hermione said, through gritted teeth. "Not like last time, you low-down _cheat_."

She surprised herself with her own venom. Riddle's words came back to her mind –_ very Slytherin of you _– but she ignored them.

"What is she talking about?" Andre muttered to Takahashi, who shrugged. Hermione waved her wand, and both her and Malfoy's brooms rushed quietly towards her. She handed Malfoy his broom, and hung hers up, starting to trudge away, fuming. It was a wonder that anyone did anything nice for a Slytherin, if that was the type of thanks they were inevitably going to receive.

"Stay away from Tom, if you know what's good for you!" hissed Araminta after Hermione, and Hermione responded with a choice finger.

She walked to the lake and sat down, fuming for a while, not even knowing why she let them get to her in the first place. _It doesn't matter!_ She kept telling herself that... but if it was going to hurt her, didn't it matter? If she could actually risk being tortured just for being who she was, didn't it end up mattering quite a bit, after all? Hermione slowly etched patterns in the ice with her wand.

"Knut for your thoughts?" said a smooth voice from behind her. Hermione dropped her wand and turned to see Tom Riddle looking down at her curiously. "You seem... agitated," he said.

He sat down next to her. Hermione turned back to the frozen lake. "Why haven't you told Araminta it's not true?" she muttered.

"What's not true?"

Hermione laughed shortly. "Oh, come on, don't tell me you haven't heard," she scoffed. "Apparently, you and I are romantically involved, though I don't know how _that_ rumor got started."

He was quiet for a second. "Oh," he said.

"Anyway," Hermione sighed, "I was at the Quidditch pitch and Malfoy fell off his broom and broke some bones. I was fixing them, so his shirt was... well, you know, _off_, and of _course_ that's the moment Araminta chooses to walk in."

"She tends to do things at the most inopportune of times," Riddle said, a dark smile at the edge of his voice. "One of her many charms."

Was that wry sarcasm, coming from Lord Voldemort? Hermione let out a slow breath. "I'm attempting not to let her idiocy irritate me," she muttered, "but it's proving difficult. Some people are just so... closed-minded."

Then she remembered she was talking to one such person, and she shut her mouth. "About what?" said Riddle.

"Well, _you_ probably don't want to hear this, but my background," Hermione said.

_Oh. That._ Riddle sighed. It wasn't her fault that she had filthy blood any more than it was his fault that he was a half-blood, but it was a difficult aspect of her existence to get past, surely. When he spoke to her, he attempted to restrain his thoughts so that he solely thought in terms of 'wizard' and 'Muggle', so that she fell into the former category, but that, too, was proving difficult. Why should he have to accommodate Mudbloods, anyway? They were the ones who were infiltrating the system of witchcraft and wizardry, in any case, wreaking havoc on the line of purity that ought to have accompanied –

"I know you agree with her, anyway, so let's just not talk about that," Hermione mumbled, an oddly self-deprecating look on her face. "Why the urge to talk to me in broad daylight, by the way?"

"Oh. I thought we were past that stage, Granger," said Riddle, "unless you're embarrassed to be seen with me, in which case..." He trailed off, raising an eyebrow. It was strange, the way their relationship had progressed – he had been his usual, civil, polite self for far less time than usual, and then after he had already unleashed his most terrifying attack, he almost felt like he was fading back into that polite façade. Usually, there was a very straightforward timeline: if someone didn't know him, he was a perfect person; if they did know him, he was polite up until the very second he needed them to be under his control. Then he tortured them, they swore their allegiance, and he was Master for the rest of their days. This... jumping around the timeline with the girl wasn't normal, and Riddle wasn't sure he liked it, but whatever was necessary for... proceeding events...

"No, no, I don't care," Hermione said. She didn't want to wound his pride, after all, after this uneasy peace had settled between them.

Then, a voice came from behind them. It was deep and had a grin embedded in it. "Hey, you two," it said. Riddle glanced over his shoulder.

"Oh, hello, Abraxas," he said, his voice silky smooth.

"Malfoy," greeted Hermione with a nod. "What happened to practice?"

"General mutiny," Malfoy sighed. He flopped down on the snow on Hermione's other side. "Listen, Granger, sorry on Araminta's behalf," he told Hermione, looking up at her with a smile. "I'm sure she didn't – I mean, well, yeah, she probably meant it – but don't take it to heart. And thanks for fixing me up."

Hermione was pleasantly surprised by what he said. Lo and behold! A Slytherin who seemed like he was a genuinely okay sort of type? Without having to dig through layers of mystery, or anything? "No problem," she replied, smiling back at him.

Abraxas met Riddle's eye and immediately glanced away. Riddle was giving him a look – a look that clearly said to back away from the situation. But the Granger girl was already standing up and saying, "Well, I'm off to catch up with Albus and Miranda. Look, nice to meet you, Malfoy. And, Tom – well, I'll see you later, yeah?"

Abraxas waved, and Riddle gave a lazy nod as Granger turned back to the castle, a newfound spring in her step.

"Did I ask you to be present?" Riddle said slowly, long after Hermione had left, and Abraxas closed his eyes in dread.

"No, Master," he muttered. "I just thought it -"

"Then why were you present, hmm?" asked Riddle lazily.

"I just -"

Riddle held up a hand. "That was rhetorical," he sighed. "You had done such a good thing by falling off that damn broom of yours, but now that is undone. You may leave."

Malfoy got to his feet, brushing snow off his robes. Riddle had such a flair for the overdramatic – but he could get away with it, because he was so terrifying. The slim, dark boy had a mesmerizing presence that was impossible to resist. Malfoy was practically in awe of the Granger girl for having kept any semblance of sanity, actually...

Abraxas wondered what Riddle was doing with her, whether he had got the information he needed. Well, apparently not, because if he had he would have stopped associating with her by now, discarding her like so many others he had just tossed to the side – Araminta being one of them, although it had been easy to wring information out of her. Riddle hadn't even consulted Abraxas about that – it had just taken one dark smile, one slow kiss, and she was talking like there was no tomorrow.

Riddle and Araminta were so similar, though, and he and the Granger girl were absolutely nothing alike. She seemed... nice, Abraxas thought. She had helped him without question when he had fallen, anyway, which pointed to a lack of house prejudice, and she certainly had a nice smile.

Abraxas wondered if she even had an inkling of what the real Riddle was like, wondered if she had been shown a glimpse of what he was beneath that polite, demure exterior. If she hadn't... well, she was in for a storm, and everyone knew it. Godelot, Malfoy, Takahashi, Taylor, Vaisey, Herpo, even Salazar Slytherin, who refused to even associate with anyone except for Herpo – they all knew about Riddle, and they had all seen what his charms had done to other girls before.

Riddle was dangerous.

They had only met once in the last week – that was, Riddle and his followers – and Riddle hadn't quite seemed himself, actually. More absentminded than usual, though he always was away in his own world, which was half of the danger – waiting with bated breath for what was going to come next.

Malfoy didn't know what was wrong with Riddle. Surely, this last conquest, the Granger girl, couldn't be too terribly much of a challenge? So she was good at dueling; that had been apparent at Dueling Club. She may even have been able to resist his physical presence; she had seemed like a modest, plain, down-to-earth sort of girl. But he was _Tom Riddle_. It was strange that he would spend this much time attempting to crack any one person before just using Crucio to get it over with, but if he had used it, she definitely would have spoken already.

No, the Cruciatus Curse, from Riddle, was not something to be taken lightly, and every one of his followers knew that, from _very_ personal experience.

Hermione smiled as she headed to the kitchens. She found herself not even caring who had seen her associating with Riddle and Malfoy. If they were the only people she could find to talk to... then so be it. It wasn't a reflection upon _her_ character. And Malfoy had actually seemed like a nice sort of person.

What was going on with Riddle, though? Asking someone what was wrong was not menacing in the least. It was friendly. And Riddle didn't have friends, just people he used and people he needed.

Hermione pushed open the door to the kitchen and was distracted by the smell of smoke. She saw Miranda and Albus by one of the counters, each holding various cooking appliances.

"Hermione!" said Albus, a smile on his face. "We didn't expect to see you until later."

Miranda flicked a bit of flour onto Hermione. "How was flying?"

She considered for a second, then just decided to say, "Not too bad. And how is the, uh... the cake going?" She sniffed. The acrid smoky smell was definitely not imagined, and as Hermione cast a glance to the sink, she saw something twisted and charred.

Albus and Miranda exchanged glances. "Well, we told ourselves we wouldn't use magic to get it done, just for fun," Miranda said, "but I think if we don't use magic... bad things will continue to happen. Very bad."

Dumbledore chuckled, pushing his half-moon glasses up his long nose as he inspected the contents of the bowl he held. "Neither of us is really familiar with Muggle cooking. I mean, you can take a look, if you'd like. This is our third attempt."

Hermione eyed the congealed mass and suppressed a chuckle. Arthur Weasley had been a good example of the fact that wizards meddling in Muggle business resulted in just as many messes as the other way around. She recalled the eccentric, balding wizard fondly as she slowly added some water to the bowl, then another egg, and she quickly whipped the batter. "I'm no expert," she said, "but that looks a little better."

"You are a lifesaver," sighed Dumbledore happily, and Miranda clapped her hands excitedly, her brown hair covered in flour.

"It nearly looks edible! Thanks, Hermione; now we might not have to feed it to the Budgeon Eagles," said Miranda, and Hermione was reminded even more of Luna than usual.

"The... er... what?"

"The Budgeon Eagles," Miranda said sagely. "They're a not-so-mythical species of giant owl. I thought we used to have a pair, up in the Owlery... Although I'd guess we don't have any owls in this place..."

Hermione raised her eyebrows. She wanted to trust the words of Miranda Goshawk; she really did... but this was sounding terribly like something out of a Quibbler article. "Are you just pulling my leg?" she laughed.

"No, no," reassured Miranda. "They're completely legitimate."

Albus nodded in agreement, but flashed Hermione a quick wink when Miranda wasn't looking. Hermione grinned. "Find me a picture, and I'll believe you," she said, and looked around at the rest of the dishes on the counter, which were strewn far and wide. "This isn't just cakes, is it?"

Albus shook his head. "Some cupcakes, some muffins, a couple of pastries," he said. "We figured that if we tried as many recipes as possible, at least one had to turn out right."

Miranda waved her wand, and all the stray flour vanished. "We were going to try cookies next," she said. "Would you like to join in?"

"Yes," replied Hermione. The last time she had made cookies had been for a very happy Christmas – she could recall the recipe by heart. "And you don't need to look up a recipe, either," she added with a warm smile.

There was nothing better than baking cookies with true friends, Hermione mused, and although Araminta had made a black mark on the day, it didn't turn out so badly after all.

xXxXxXxXx

It was the day that Hermione would have left to go back home for winter holidays if this had been a real school term, but, of course, that was not an option. There were a lot more sad-looking faces around Hogwarts than usual, now that the so-called 'Holiday Season' had set in, and a lot of wistful memories seemed to be flooding everyone's minds.

The reason the day was of note was because Hermione went down to breakfast, sat down, and then was startled by a sudden clang. The general noise of the Great Hall died down quickly, and Hermione looked over to the source of the clatter – the Slytherin table. Abraxas Malfoy was standing there, his hands clasped, a melancholy look on his face. "We have some news," he said loudly, and his deep voice carried around the Great Hall, making it feel very empty. "Today, Salazar Slytherin left us. He moved on." He looked around the tables as he said, "That's all." Then he sat.

Different world. Same euphemisms. _Left us. Moved on._

Hermione bit back memories of Mina telling Miranda to add certain euphemisms to her essay, and then she just felt terrible. What if tomorrow saw Mina moving on? God forbid – what if Albus moved on? Hermione couldn't imagine losing Dumbledore for the second time. She made a mental note to spend more time with him. In fact, she suddenly felt that spending every second with him still wouldn't be enough. _Merlin!_

The general clamor of breakfast had resumed, but Hermione still sat there, a stricken look on her face. "This happens every once in a while," said Albus gently, placing his hand reassuringly on hers. "Actually, it usually comes in small groups, and then none for a while... You'll get used to it."

"But what if that was you? What if it was R.J., or Mina, or Godric? What if that was _me_?" whispered Hermione. Panic flooded her stomach. _Small groups?_ That meant that soon more people would be leaving... She wasn't ready to leave here. Not if it wasn't of her own volition. She still had so much to do, so much to say, so much to offer to the world. The most bizarre things popped into her mind – she hadn't ever been tipsy. She hadn't ever swum in the lake, unless you counted being unconscious in it. She hadn't even had sex, for goodness' sake, which was by far the least of her worries, but it was still something that people _did_ on earth, and soon the opportunity would be gone and –

Hermione looked up. Albus placed his arm gently around her in a light hug, and she leaned towards him, wishing he were the wizened, sage Dumbledore, practiced in giving advice.

"Thanks, Albus," she said softly, her voice filled with misery.

He replied, "Things will happen as they happen. Just do what you can do, and no one can ask any more of you."

Well, that was _exactly_ like something the Dumbledore she had known would say. Hermione smiled sadly. "I was rather distressed the first time someone moved, too," Miranda said quietly. "You learn to be happy for them. Wherever they are, they're probably doing what they hoped and dreamed."

That was a nice thing to think about – moving on just to do everything she had ever wanted. No more struggle. No more fighting.

"Thanks, you two," said Hermione, her voice regaining some strength. "I -"

She looked up and happened to see R.J.'s back disappearing through the door. "I'll see you later," she said, and hurried after R.J.

She only managed to catch up to him in the middle of the field outside. As she grabbed his shoulder, he turned around, and his eyes widened in surprise. He shook back his black hair.

"Hermione?" he said, his light tenor voice so familiar, yet so unfamiliar, after two weeks. Two whole _weeks_. So much could have happened between then and now. Hermione's heart buoyed unexpectedly – they had so much to talk about, as soon as she could just get these stupid words out –

"I'm so sorry," she said. "This whole thing has been so stupid and unnecessary and I just – I'm sorry." Her throat seized up in the cold, and she squinted her eyes against the glare of the snow.

R.J. didn't say anything for a second. Then he reached out and enfolded her in one of the tightest hugs she had ever experienced.

He smelled nice – like pine and fire. He whispered fiercely, "I've been such a child."

"Me too," she managed to squeeze out under the crush of his hug, and when he released her she sighed in relief. "Merlin, R.J., I'm so, so, sorry." Now that she had said it once, she felt like she could say it a million times. "I can't even remember what I was mad about."

"I remember," he said, his blue eyes wistful. "We didn't want to talk about our lives. But I was secretly just mad about Riddle."

"I knew it!" said Hermione, as everything rushed back. "I knew there was something you weren't telling me."

He shrugged shyly. "I was a bit jealous. But, I mean, that's dumb, right? Even if you're best friends with a slimy Slytherin, doesn't mean you can't be friends with me, too. I've been wanting to say I'm sorry for a while, but I'm not exactly upfront. You know."

They hugged again, a slower, gentler hug. It was so nice to be back in the company of someone Hermione knew she could trust – someone she never had to put up a guard against, someone she was never afraid of. "I've missed you and Godric and Mina _so much_," she said. "I can't believe myself."

"I can't believe you either," R.J. said, and she punched him. He chortled. "No, but I'm really glad you've decided to – well, I've known Mina for a very long time, and she won't _ever_ apologize to someone if they don't do it first. It's a bit of a thing with her."

"I hadn't guessed."

R.J. smiled warmly. "I'm on my way to meet those two right now, actually – down by Hogsmeade. You want to come?"

"Yes," said Hermione firmly. She nearly couldn't believe it – she was standing a couple inches away from R.J. again, and they were walking together and talking as if nothing had ever happened, laughing and joking and doing things _friends did._ It had taken her long enough to get past that stupid pride, but she felt so relieved, felt an immense sense of satisfaction, felt as if she had finally remembered something she'd been trying to remember for a long time.

But when they stopped in front of Mina and Godric, who were sitting side-by-side on the bridge, Hermione froze for a second.

"I -"

Mina wasn't looking cold, exactly, but she was searching Hermione's face for _something_, and it was making Hermione uneasy. Godric was just not looking at her, instead looking at R.J., which was a lot easier to handle.

"I'm sorry. I've been dumb," sighed Hermione finally.

"Me too," muttered Mina. "Sorry, and all that." They met each other's eyes, and Hermione smiled hesitantly. A small grin slowly spread across Mina's face, and that familiar grey twinkle made its way into her eyes.

There was a short pause. "Well! Now that's over with," boomed Godric, "let's go and get some damned Butterbeer!" Mina socked him on the shoulder.

xXxXxXxXx

Malfoy screamed, tears rolling down his cheeks.

"Why am I _constantly_ disappointed in you?" hissed Riddle, pressing his wand to Malfoy's temple and twisting it slightly, intensifying the hot pains that were blistering the bottom of Malfoy's feet. It was not the Cruciatus, but another distinctly Dark and unpleasant curse.

"I'm sorry," sobbed Malfoy, "I didn't – I didn't think -"

"No," growled Riddle in agreement. "No one except me ever _thinks_ in this damn place!" He lifted the wand, and one of the blisters on the bottom of Abraxas' feet slowly burst. "_Crucio,_" he whispered, in a deathly quiet voice, and when it was quiet... that was always the worst.

Six wordless followers watched in silent horror as Abraxas Malfoy thrashed on the ground of the dungeon, his yells deadened by the spell placed on the room.

"Who discovered that Salazar was not in his place this morning?" asked Riddle quietly, lifting his wand after what seemed like a year.

Malfoy's mouth was slightly open, and he seemed only to be able to emit incoherent noises of raw pain. Riddle clenched his jaw in frustration. If Granger had been able to talk after his most vicious Cruciatus, why could his most loyal followers not do the same? _Ennervate_. "Tell me."

Abraxas sat up, racked with involuntary shaking. "Taylor," he said unsteadily, and no one could blame him for spilling.

"Andre," sighed Riddle, as if a great mystery had been solved. "Why don't you come here?"

His eyes were completely unreadable. Andre Taylor made his way to stand across from Riddle, his dark skin seeming to glow a little in the torchlight. Malfoy stumbled back to a desk, where Takahashi conjured him a seat wordlessly and helped him sit. Herpo waved his black wand silently over Malfoy's feet, and the redness lessened, although the curse could not be removed completely without the help of the caster.

"So, Andre," said Riddle, "tell me. Was it your idea to make the announcement this morning?"

"No," said Andre, in a low, confident voice – just how Riddle liked it. No hesitation; no wasted time.

"Then whose was it?" Riddle asked, lifting Andre's chin with his wand so that he was looking directly into his eyes. Riddle was pleased to see the abject terror in the other boy's brown eyes.

"It was no one's idea specifically, as it is a custom," said Taylor smoothly, "but the first person to mention it was Vaisey."

Riddle dropped his wand from Taylor's face and turned away from him. Taylor walked back to join the ranks, his heart fluttering so fast – he had _barely_ escaped, thank Merlin – that he couldn't even think straight –

And Riddle's eyes found purchase on the tall, gangly, awkward Eliot Vaisey. Vaisey, who was really pretty harmless. Vaisey, who really didn't know any better. Vaisey, who didn't quite yet understand what was to come.

"Eliot," said Riddle's low, shy voice. "Come here." Vaisey stumbled his way to the front of the room. "Do you understand why I am upset?" asked Riddle, with a strange gentleness in his tone.

"N-n-no, Master," stammered Vaisey, and each of the other boys prayed for him. Riddle hated it when there was any sort of delay, any stutter in a response to his questions –

But they were all surprised, because then Riddle turned to them and folded his hands in front of him. He was not wearing robes, just a black shirt, black pants, and black shoes, his light wand held loosely in his long-fingered grip, looking like the very Devil himself. "Well," he said, "it seems I have not been completely open with you, my loyal followers." As if he was ever open with them.

He sighed and ran a hand through his dark hair. "There is a girl. Her name is Granger – Hermione Granger. She is a Gryffindor. I have worked very hard – e_xtremely_ hard, in fact – to _figure her out_. She remains a mystery to me, but I am trying the only tactic I have left – attempting to... well, to _befriend_ her." Riddle let out a half-chuckle. "A bit laughable, no?"

He eyed his followers. There was no reaction. Good. "In any case," he continued, "I had managed to get her other friends out of the equation, so that she would have no choice but to turn to me, and this Salazar Slytherin event has knocked her firmly back into their _grip_." His hands clenched around his wand, and the muscles in his jaw tightened. "I am treading on thin ice as it is, gentlemen," he said, his voice soft, and it was as if the very air was training its ears to hear what he had to say. "Abraxas and I – we _are_ going to be close to the girl, and if anything happens to endanger that occurrence's full success... Well, if you get in the way, you may as well kiss every finger on your right hand goodbye, because I will never let anyone with the capacity to make such a _grave_ mistake hold a wand again."

He looked around. His quiet voice had them all glued in place with discomfort and fear. Perfect. "I trust there are no questions," he said. It was not a question.

"You may leave. Vaisey, Taylor – I am so sorry for the misunderstanding."

By the end, his voice was practically a whisper.

"Abraxas... stay."

The classroom door shut after Takahashi, and Riddle went and knelt by Abraxas. He placed his wand to Malfoy's feet, and the blisters sealed over, rippling back into flawless white skin. "That was necessary," he said, as if he was reassuring himself. "I apologize, that you so constantly have to be the scapegoat in this situation, Abraxas."

Malfoy nodded. "I understand," he said tiredly, his voice rubbed to a croak from screaming. "But... when you said that we _both_ would be close to the Granger girl...?"

"Yes," Riddle said, and he helped Malfoy out of the chair. "You can walk?"

"Yes; fine," said Malfoy.

"Well, the Granger girl did seem to take to you. You have a certain openness that endears you to people, I think, and if we together can make her feel more at ease than just me... then, by all means, help me," Riddle said smoothly.

"I live to help you," replied Abraxas, his eyes looking at the ground at Riddle's feet.

"I know," sighed Riddle, as if it were a great burden, and then he said, "Really, though, Abraxas – I do appreciate all that you do." And that was it. He turned on one shining heel and walked off.

Abraxas swallowed as Riddle left the room. That burning curse – he didn't know what it was, but it had been one of the more painful experiences of his life, and that was including some of the Cruciatus Curses to which he had been subjected. It was odd – somehow, the more Riddle used him as an example to the others, the closer Malfoy felt he was growing to Riddle. What he had just said, about appreciation – what was _that_? Riddle had never said anything like that to anyone, not as far as Malfoy knew. It was as if the Cruciatus Curse were a badge of honor, worn by only his closest followers – and the worst of it was that it instilled a bizarre sense of pride in Malfoy, though he had never wanted to do this, to be this, in the first place. Riddle's attentions were an unintentional addiction, and never had Malfoy felt more pity for himself – or for someone else: the girl. He didn't think that 'she's in trouble' even _started_ to cover it.


	11. Chapter 11

Hermione sat bolt upright. The book was about two inches from her nose, and her eyes were glued to the page. _Oh my God._

There it was. There it was! Hermione swallowed, her mouth so dry that her tongue felt like a stick of sandpaper.

She frantically read back to the subtitle – Links of the Magical World – and down through the first paragraph. This was it. This man, this wonderful, perfect author, what was his name – Drew Caeziten – what type of a name was that? – but it didn't – didn't matter – _it was in here._

Hermione's hands actually shook a bit as she gripped the book painfully tight, like it would spring from her grip and go flush itself down Myrtle's toilet.

After two months of reading – longer than she had ever spent on one specific subject – she had finally found something on thread theory, buried deep in the recesses of the Restricted Section between an essay on Basilisk body parts and a huge maroon tome about pagan religions in the world of old magic.

Hermione turned the page. It was nearly unreal. And, sure, some parts of it were a little rough around the edges, but he basically had it right – "a medium universe, caught between the gates of life and the pit of death" – "where those who have made irreversible ties to their own location on Earth are caught" – "a net of interwoven magics made to catch the soul at a temporary harbor" – it was _here_.

It even mentioned horcruxes, however loosely and vaguely. "Those most evil of magics," said Caeziten, "are the most effective, as to sin is so purely mortal that the bonds of darkest sin are the strongest ties to Earth."

Hermione laid her head back on the pillow and thrashed in pure delight. _YES!_ She flopped forward on her stomach, hoping that wherever this author was, he was enjoying the most kingly of existences.

It wasn't just the one paragraph, either. He went on for four or five pages about this before returning to his previous study of dead wizards, which was a bit weird and very illegal, but Hermione didn't care about that.

She read and reread the pages about ten times, taking detailed notes with fervor. The people coming into and out of the dormitory didn't disturb her at all. Nothing could break her concentration – not when Hermione Granger had finally found what she needed.

The essential theory of the author was that the ties of any given witch and wizard stretched the entire way from Life to Death once they died, and that if fortified enough, the person could actually travel along the cords, as if they were a zip-line – it would be very difficult to climb back up to Life, but easier to slide down to Death. Also, if one attempted to climb out of this world, there was a risk that the threads would snap altogether, leaving them there forever. The author had a few vague postulates as to what the threads were made of, but the most likely-sounding to Hermione was the actual life-force of the witch or wizard. This so-called 'life-force' would encompass the soul and all magical ability, like a huge knot within the person that could be unraveled.

That made sense to Hermione – and every time someone made a horcrux, it was as if someone sawed through part of the knot and tied the loose ends to that object, so when someone killed the witch or wizard, they had a clear hold to Life. In saying this, he mentioned the fact that the part of the person that found its way to the inter-world would be the timeless part, the ageless part, the young part.

He was so _correct!_ Hermione grinned ear-to-ear as she scanned her notes. The author went on to suggest that the way to move one way or another was to weaken or strengthen the bonds in one direction or the other. Time would weather down the bonds up to Life naturally, but nothing would fortify Life's bonds naturally – that needed to be done by the will of the witch or wizard in question.

The question was _how_. The author listed a few guesses: absolute goodness; absolute evil; and actions specific to the ties of the witch or wizard.

Hermione didn't know what to think about that part. They all seemed plausible, yet completely implausible. How was it fair that someone who committed an act of absolute evil could be granted passage back to Earth? Yet how could it make sense that an act of absolute goodness could grant passage, if ultimate good inherently went unrewarded? Actions specific to each tie – so, for Hermione, that would be the keeping of secrets, or the character objects, or the ward.

For the first time, Hermione felt a small bubble of hope swelling inside her. What if this was it? What if this was the way? What if there were a _legitimate_ _chance_ that she could get back to Earth – finish living out her life – see her friends again?

Emotion overwhelmed her, and tears welled up in her eyes. She pounced on her pillow and buried her face into it, biting her bottom lip to keep herself from sobbing hopelessly. But the tears on her face were not ones of sadness – they were hesitantly optimistic. Could she dare to hope this might work?

The very end of the passage suggested that if or when a person got back to life from this world, they would be the age they had been when they had arrived there. So when Hermione returned, if it took ten years, she would still be eighteen when she returned. In theory, anyway.

"Oi, Hermione – hey, are you alright?"

Mina had walked in, tying up her wild black hair with a band from around her skinny wrist. She froze mid-action as she saw Hermione lying motionless on the bed.

"Yeah, I'm fine," said Hermione brightly, sitting back up to face Mina, who relaxed. "What's going on?"

Mina shrugged. "I just – the notice got posted this morning. The event coordinators are hosting a Christmas ball. It happens every year."

Hermione broke into an absurdly large smile. "Really?"

"Yeah," laughed Mina. "Here, come look at the sign. It's even fancier than usual."

And fancy it was. The three-foot-wide poster was a powder blue, embellished with silver letters and snowflake designs. It read:

_You are hereby cordially invited to the Twenty-Eighth annual Christmas Ball,_

_ Held in the Great Hall this Christmas Eve at Seven in the Evening._

_ Costumes are encouraged._

Hermione looked at Mina, who was smiling wide. "Oh, man," Mina said, "I think this year's going to be good. They never let out the theme more than a day ahead of time, but it's always gorgeous." Mina then looked a little embarrassed. "I mean, it's a bit childish, considering – but, I mean, Hogwarts never had any balls or parties or anything when I was there, so it's nice to have them here, at least." She blushed a little. Hermione smiled.

"No, it'll be fun!" she said. "You, Miranda and I can pretend we're normal girls and get ready together." Mina grinned.

"There aren't any dressmakers down at Hogsmeade, anymore, obviously, so we all sort of have to make our own, or ask some of the girlier girls to make them for us," said Mina as they walked down to the Great Hall for lunch.

Hermione grimaced. She had never really been into domestic things like sewing, so that was a bit inconvenient. "Do you know anyone who sews?" she asked Mina tentatively. "I sure as hell don't sew."

"Yeah. Melia sews, I know that," said Mina through a mouthful of egg. "Catalina also sews. She's the Gryffindor Seeker."

Hermione looked down the table at the smiling Catalina. The tiny black girl had a huge number of dreadlocks that were tied back into a big braid, and she seemed to have a perpetual twinkle in her eye. "She looks nice," said Hermione.

"Oh, she is nice," agreed Mina. "I don't know what she might have done to get stuck here, though, since she's a Domestic Witch."

Hermione frowned. "What's that?"

Mina shrugged. "Exactly what it sounds like. A witch who specializes in cooking, cleaning, clothes, all that boring stuff. She used to be a world-renowned Seeker, but then after she retired she became a famous Domestic Witch instead. I used to read about her in magazines when I was ten, which is weird."

A Domestic Witch? Hermione frowned. That sounded terribly like house-elf enslavement or something. Hermione was glad she'd grown up in the eighties – she didn't think she would have been able to deal with the repression of the early 20th Century. She would have had to make a sort of S.P.E.W. for women, Hermione surmised with a dry smile on her face. "_Spew_", Ron had called it… and she had insisted that he and Harry take a part in it, if only because they constantly mocked her for it...

"Hm," said Hermione, and went back to eating. "We don't have to have dates or anything, do we?"

"A few people take dates," Mina said, "but it's really not an issue. The whole thing, it's just something to help people forget all the things we remember around this time of year, you know?"

"Yeah," said Hermione, a weight dragging at her heart. Those sweaters that Mrs. Weasley had used to make. The effort she'd put into finding her two best friends practical gifts. The way she would wake up and presents would be at the foot of her bed. The memories didn't stop flooding in until she forcefully repressed them. No wonder it was hard around this time of year.

xXxXxXxXx

It was December first, and a few people were levitating ornaments onto huge Christmas trees around the Great Hall. Melia hadn't laid off the cold, so Hermione had discarded the usual black robes and rooted around in the seemingly-endless trunk of clothes in her room to find winter clothing. It appeared that the rest of the castle had done the same – everywhere Hermione went, she saw hats, scarves, gloves, sweaters, boots, instead of robes.

"So, I guess you two have seen the poster, then?" said Godric as he and R.J. sat down at the table. "I suppose you're going with Riddle, then, Hermione -"

"Har, har, shut up," said Hermione, a smile threatening to pull at her mouth. The subject of Riddle, strangely, had turned into a sort of joke between the four of them, once Hermione had quashed the rumors about any romantic involvement whatsoever.

R.J. laughed. "We're just messing," he said.

"I know," replied Hermione with an evil grin, and flicked her wand. R.J. and Godric's goblets of pumpkin juice flung themselves into the boys' faces.

Mina cracked up in laughter. "You two have got to learn not to joke around with this one here," she said, nudging Hermione with a bony shoulder. "She's a _serious_ one."

R.J. scowled and waved his wand over himself and Godric. The juice vanished. Godric said, "Miranda, Albus and I were thinking we'd have a snowball fight. Are you three in?"

Hermione considered it. Wizard snowball fights were often painful, because people usually charmed the snowballs to throw themselves – and _very_ quickly. "Sure," said Mina. R.J. nodded. Hermione sighed and relented, too.

"Just us six?" she said.

"Just us six," reassured Godric.

They trudged outside to the field, where thick, wet snow lay just waiting to splatter into people's faces. Miranda and Albus already stood outside, their hands in their pockets, their cheeks rosy from the cold.

"I've been wondering this for a while," muttered Mina as they approached the pair. "Do you think there's something... well, going on between those two?"

Hermione stared at Albus and Miranda. Dumbledore hadn't ever been married to anyone, or even dated anyone, as far as she knew, and she knew quite a bit about Dumbledore thanks to Rita Skeeter and various other sources.

R.J. blinked bemusedly. "I don't know," he said, "I've never really thought about Albus in... that context."

Godric shrugged. "I figure what with the amount of time they spend with each other, if they wanted to go out, they already would, you know?"

"Yeah," Hermione agreed. "I think they're just very good friends."

Miranda waved them over. "Hurry up!" she called, her light brown hair flopping around in the brisk breeze.

Dumbledore flicked his wand, and a perfect sphere of snow rose from the ground, spinning in front of his face. "I hope you are all ready for a swift demise," he said, with an uncharacteristic smirk to his voice.

"Oh, please," laughed Mina, taking out her wand and settling down into a fighting sort of stance. "Do your worst, Dumbly."

"Are there teams?" R.J. said.

"Boys against girls!" said Miranda, and flicked her own wand. Giant piles of snow rose up in front of each of the boys and toppled over onto them. The girls formed a group, wands at the ready.

"No fair!" came Godric's muffled voice from beneath the snow drift. Suddenly, R.J. burst out of the snow, his black hair soaked and his blue eyes laughing.

"Oh, is that how it is?" he said, and waved his wand. Snowballs started to fly indiscriminately towards the three girls. Hermione flicked her wand, and a shield of thick ice slid upwards from the ground. R.J.'s snowballs plastered themselves harmlessly onto the other side.

Godric and Albus stood, wands at the ready. But before they could do anything else, Hermione staggered forward, a big, wet snowball splattering onto the back of her head. She rounded on the thrower.

Abraxas Malfoy stood there, tossing a snowball up and down in his gloved hand, an easy smile on his pale face. "Malfoy!" Hermione gasped, touching the back of her head. "That _hurt!_"

"Sorry I have a strong arm," Malfoy said. "Don't tell me you Gryffindors use wands in your snowball fights. So cheap."

R.J. and Godric traded glances, and they simultaneously flicked their wands. Two huge snowballs collided with Malfoy's chest, and he sat down, hard, in the snow. Hermione laughed. "It's more practical."

Then a huge lump of snow fell on top of Hermione's head, and she wheeled around in frustration. "Who – Riddle!" she said. He stood just a few feet away with one hand in his pocket, the other holding his wand, a big black jacket on his lean body. Hermione's face suddenly felt hot. He looked stunning in the wintry landscape, his dark features standing out dramatically, his nearly-black hair ruffled by the wind.

"Mind if we join?" Riddle asked smoothly.

Hermione looked around at her friends. Miranda and Albus looked indifferent, R.J. and Godric exchanged a glance and shrugged, and Mina let out an indifferent mumbling noise. "Go ahead," Hermione said.

"Now the teams are uneven," Godric complained loudly.

"Well, you know what the solution to _that_ is," said Malfoy, his low voice mischievous.

There was an expectant silence.

"Every man for himself!" he bellowed, and dove down behind a snowdrift.

Hermione fell flat as a stream of snow rushed over her, navigated by Mina's wand. She suddenly found herself laughing helplessly. This was so... fun. It was fun like she hadn't had in a very, very long time, and it was so harmless, so innocent, the complete opposite of the last year of her life—

She flicked her wand, sending snow at everyone in sight, and pulled herself to her knees. R.J. fell backwards under onslaught from Malfoy, so she helped him out with a well-placed missile.

The air was thick with snow and laughter. After a while, the muscles of her face hurt from grinning so much, and she wriggled over to a snowdrift for shelter, only to find that Mina and Godric were behind it, ducking down and charming people's snowballs to fly back at their senders. Hermione realized that other people, random people, had joined in the snow fight: the entire Ravenclaw Quidditch team, who looked like they had been on their way to practice; a couple of Hufflepuffs who were holding empty Butterbeer bottles—or was that Firewhiskey? Also, Briene Flint, Revelend Godelot, Herpo… and Araminta, who looked completely different as she laughed and played in the snow like everyone else. _So much for 'just us six', huh? _A happy bubble swelled up in Hermione, and she looked back at Godric and Mina, and her eyes widened in shock.

They were kissing, Godric's hand resting lightly on Mina's shoulder, her hand in his red hair.

Hermione scrambled back around to the other side of the snowdrift, where she was immediately barraged by a wall of snow. She waved her wand and got back to her feet, in a bit of a daze. She supposed she should have seen that coming – Mina and Godric – but it was just... surprising, that was all. One didn't think of the Founder of Gryffindor House in that way.

She looked back at the snowball fight, ducking a blob of white, and forged her way over to R.J.

"Hey! R.J.," she called over the yells of the battle.

"Yeah?" He grinned fiercely as he deflected a snowy arm.

Hermione pointed back at the snowdrift. "Mina... and Godric!" she panted. He raised his eyebrows. "They're... well, they're..." She fumbled for words. "Kissing!"

"Took him long enough!" said R.J., smiling even wider than before. Hermione opened her mouth.

"You knew about this and you didn't tell me?" she accused, and aimed a snowball into his stomach. He doubled over and threw a snowball at her shoulder, spinning her around.

"Yes, you idiot," he laughed, "because he didn't want anyone to know!"

Hermione scowled. "Okay, fine," she said. "Come on, let's get rid of these Slytherins—"

She raised her wand and concentrated. _Just like Godric taught me._ A tendril of snow rose out of the field and grabbed Malfoy by the ankle, shaking him fiercely back and forth.

"Submit, fiend!" Hermione yelled to the dangling Abraxas. He laughed.

"No, foul troll!" he yelled back, flailing desperately, and Hermione giggled. She glanced back at R.J., who was engaging in a fast-paced snowball exchange with Riddle.

Hermione flicked her wand, tossing Abraxas through the air. He landed squarely on top of Riddle, whose eyes widened briefly before he was plowed into the ground by the airborne Malfoy.

"That's not funny!" Riddle managed to grunt, as he hoisted the bigger boy off of him and stood back up. "Abraxas weighs as much as a hippogriff." Riddle glanced back down at Malfoy, who grinned hopelessly.

Hermione's laughs echoed like bells in the clear air, and she doubled over uncontrollably. R.J. leaned on her shoulder, letting out a tired 'phew!' as he narrowly dodged a thin stream of snow.

"Oh God, shelter, shelter," R.J. panted, and Hermione raised a large ice wall. Her eyes met R.J.'s, and she was struck by that same feeling that she had had once before – an unsteady, unsure, swooping, happy feeling. There was a short pause.

"Hey, Hermione – how about going to that ball thing with me?" he said slowly, a small smile on his lips. He straightened back up. As she stared at him disbelievingly, the smile slowly died from his expression. "I mean, since Godric and Mina are probably – but, um, if -"

"Yeah, sure!" blurted Hermione. "Of course! Sure."

Immense relief flooded R.J.'s face, and his eyes twinkled, their light blue that of the sky. "Great," he said. "That's – that's great."

He blushed a little, and they were saved any awkward silence by a particularly well-placed snowball striking a crack in the ice and blowing their cover. Hermione turned back to the fight.

It was nearly dark when it finally ended. Hermione and Mina walked inside, thoroughly soaked. "I'm _so happy_," said Mina fiercely, looking at Hermione with a nearly manic shine in her grey eyes.

"Oh, really?"

"Godric and I are _finally _getting somewhere!" she said breathlessly, and suddenly enfolded Hermione in a tight hug. "I can't believe it!"

"I can," Hermione said calmly, a smile on her lips. "That's really wonderful, Mina."

"I know!" squealed Mina. "God. I – you know. I'm not usually like this. Especially over some _boy_. But he's like this too – and he said he'd never felt this way before."

Hermione laughed. "He's hardly just 'some boy'. He's _Godric Gryffindor_. And you two are perfect."

"Really?" Mina asked, unable to keep the smile from her face. "Thanks, Hermione, I just – argh, I – okay." She took a deep breath, calming herself, and they walked up one of the moving staircases.

"R.J. asked me to that dance thing," Hermione commented quietly after a few minutes. "I don't really know what to... do."

Mina whirled around to face Hermione, her eyes wide. "He did?" she said. "Wow, I didn't guess at that one."

"Neither did I," said Hermione honestly. "I said yes, of course, but I'm not sure if I... should have."

Mina shrugged, looking a bit bewildered. "Well, only time will tell," she said, then grinned again. "Okay, I'm going to go take a bath."

Hermione nodded and waved as Mina headed towards the Prefects' bathroom. She was glad that her and Mina's friendship had repaired, but she felt like there was something missing, now. Something that could not be replaced. Godric and R.J. had both just sat there in relative sullen silence during the argument, but Mina had been the one to yell, to accuse, to hate, to inundate Hermione's mind with terrible things, and that made Hermione want to hold her at arm's distance, not to let her get too close. If she let people get close, after all, they would just end up hurting her, and the fact that Mina had already done so had left a defined scar on their relationship. She hated that it felt superficial.

Hermione walked back down to the Great Hall, her legs tired from all the running around. Waving her wand, she combed the stray ice and snow from her bushy hair, the tangles stroking themselves out in a pink haze, and she dried herself off.

Things were looking up. Maybe while her good luck lasted, she should go to the common room and test out a few of those theories in the book, or at least skim through the rest of the book to make sure there wasn't anything else she had missed in passing –

"Granger," said a voice from behind her.

Hermione turned around. The speaker was a breathless Tom Riddle. "Oh, hello, Riddle," she said. They were in the Entrance Hall, and there were lots of students milling around. That was a change from the usual location of their conversations.

"I – um," he said, scratching his head with a pale hand. He did not continue.

She looked around. "Are you okay?" she said. He seemed a bit restless, which was strange given his usual composure.

He nodded.

"It was good to see you doing something fun for a change, Riddle," Hermione said with a raised eyebrow. "Exceeded my expectations."

"I tend to exceed expectations," Riddle replied with a smirk. There; that was more like the usual Riddle. He took out his wand, but Hermione didn't even flinch, just gripped hers a little tighter in her pocket. Then he started absentmindedly drying his sodden hair, his eyes never straying from hers. She felt uncomfortably pinned again, just standing there as students passed by. "You seem to have made up with your friends," he commented. "Why the sudden change of heart?"

"Why so interested?" Hermione asked, frowning.

Riddle shrugged. He couldn't let her get too close to her friends again, but she couldn't know that. What he had to do now was make sure he was always on her mind, always a presence, impossible to shake. This was proving irritatingly difficult – over the last few days, she had seemed to have completely reunited with the other Gryffindors, and they had only talked a bit, in passing, and it wasn't anything memorable... He had to do something drastic, but he didn't know what.

His eyes strayed to the obnoxious powder-blue poster that was just a few feet away. _Of course._ He breathed out in relief – what a perfect opportunity. Of course she wouldn't have been asked yet – those _things_ were only put up this morning, after all.

"Look, Granger – would you come here for a second?"

"...okay," she said warily. He really did look sort of unsettled. Going somewhere with a volatile Tom Riddle wasn't a great option, but she had her wand and their seeming truce.

They walked into a deserted classroom. He didn't shut the door behind him, which put Hermione a little at ease. That meant he surely wouldn't try anything.

She sat on top of a desk. "So, Riddle, what's -"

"I wanted to ask you to the dance," he said, his quiet voice tripping over the words. "I mean, would you... go... with me?"

Hermione was rooted to the spot in surprise, and she suddenly felt incredibly glad that R.J. had already asked her. What was Riddle playing at, anyway, asking her to the ball? If it wasn't even usually a couples thing, why would he want to go with someone, and her, of all people? What could he get out of asking her? What possible ulterior motive could doing this have?

She had forgotten how much effort being around him required. She had just been staring at him, dumbfounded, and she shook herself back to her senses. "I... I'm sorry, Riddle, I've been asked."

He certainly looked surprised, if nothing else. The incredibly awkward silence in the room was enhanced by the shock on his face. "...oh," he said, and she could practically believe he was actually disappointed, as if Tom Riddle would deign to care about a social event. "Who?"

"R.J. King," she answered. "We're going because Mina and Godric are together now, so..." She didn't really know why she had said that last bit, as if it would make that nearly-angry look in his eyes subside, shift the blame from her – but that was stupid. She shouldn't feel guilty for having been asked already.

"Oh," Riddle said again, raising his eyebrows. He blinked and looked away. "Alright, then."

"Sorry," Hermione repeated, although she wasn't really _sorry_, per se, just absolutely baffled. "I'm... erm, I'm going to go... eat."

"Right," he said.

She just stood there for a second, and then shook her head a little and left.

Hermione was shocked, as she came out of the door, to knock into both of the Marque girls, who were just standing there... as if they had been listening... _Oh, Merlin, that is exactly what I don't need._

Riddle sat down at a desk, fiddling with the ring on his finger. Well, that had been shot fairly quickly. At least he hadn't wasted time planning it. He couldn't get over-impulsive, though – she might begin to suspect the truth, or what he kept telling himself was the truth: he was still only interested in her for what she knew, as much as he had felt... relaxed, at ease, while speaking with her the other night... Hopefully, though, someone had seen them go into the room and had overheard. That would generate a few more of those helpful rumors that Granger seemed to find so vile.

It really was most insulting, the way she almost seemed to be bashful about being seen in public with him. It was he, after all, who should have been embarrassed to be seen with a Mudblood Gryffindor, one who didn't have the cleanest slate. After all, what could she lose by being in his presence? He was perfect. Everyone liked him, didn't know him well enough to dislike him, or feared him immensely. She had _nothing_ to lose.

Well, besides her head, if Araminta saw her speaking with him. Riddle shook his head – that girl was becoming quite the hindrance.

Damn Salazar, passing like that at the single worst time he could have – and now she was embedded back in that infuriating little group of Gryffindors. Her friendships with them were like cockroaches – just wouldn't die, even with endless stamping.

But what was it that she had said – two of her friends were together now? Gryffindor, and that girl... That was good. It would drive Granger away from those two, even if it meant that she would get closer to that boy who had asked her to the dance. An unfortunate side effect, but still – anything was better than nothing, at this point.

He had to make more plans. He had to appear... genuine...

Riddle stood up, adjusting his clothes. It was strange, not wearing robes, but these clothes were a lot more practical for the weather. He composed himself, straightened his tie under his jacket, and left the classroom.

xXxXxXxXx

Hermione was quiet at dinner for reasons she didn't really understand. The whole day had been great – fantastic, even – so why did she suddenly feel so drained? Leave it to Tom Riddle to counteract an amazing day with something she didn't even begin to comprehend.

She scowled involuntarily and blew her hair out of her eyes.

"You alright?" asked R.J. quietly.

"What? Yeah, yes. Fine," she said.

A whisper of a dark voice ran through her mind: _It's amusing to fluster you... and it's _so_ easy._

Could that be all it was? It was safe to assume at all times that Tom Riddle knew everything about everything. Could he have already known that R.J. had asked her, and he just asked her to mess with her mind? It seemed like the most logical proceeding thought.

But no – he hadn't looked amused as she floundered for an adequate response. There hadn't been a smirk or even a hint at one.

_Dammit, Voldemort!_ It was ludicrous that the master of all evil, the man who had singlehandedly turned the Wizarding World on its head, had _asked her to a dance_. It was very nearly funny, actually, now that Hermione thought about it, and her mouth curled into a private smile as she continued eating her dinner. This was crazy.

"Oh, hey, R.J.," she said, suddenly remembering that she had wanted to ask someone, "I've got a question."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. So, suppose someone had, say, more than one horcrux..."

"More than one?" said R.J. in a hushed voice, his blue eyes wide in alarm. "Why the hell would you have more than one?"

Right. Hermione had forgotten that the idea was so repulsive in nature, given that she had spent the last year or so of her life desperately trying to find all of Voldemort's numerous horcruxes... "Well, yeah, just in theory."

"...okay," said R.J. cautiously, looking at Hermione as if she had sprouted an extra nose.

Hermione sighed. "Well, I was wondering how the whole remorse thing would work. Like, could the individual pieces put themselves back together if they felt remorseful about it?"

R.J.'s mouth quirked, and he thought for a while. "Merlin, that's actually an interesting question," he mused aloud. "I'd say to consult the library, but I doubt they even have anything on horcruxes in the first place."

_They don't._

"If I were to give my own humble opinion," R.J. said, "I'd hazard a guess that it'd be hard for the person to feel anything at all, if they ripped up their soul twice. Or, er, more. So, feeling remorse would be sort of a stretch, but I'm guessing since it would be harder to do it in the first place, it would heal everything back together once the person managed it. In hypothesis."

He picked up a piece of potato and eyed it. "I mean, that isn't relevant to you, though, is it?" he said, shooting a grin at Hermione, who laughed.

"Oh, yeah, look at me," she said. "Can't you see I'm the type to kill bunches of innocent people?"

R.J. chuckled, a bit humorlessly, and Hermione was reminded of the fact that he had had to kill an innocent person for his job as an Unspeakable. That must have been unbelievably awful. "Look, R.J.," she said quietly, "I'm sorry to bring up horcruxes around you. It must be hard."

"Yeah, it's rough," he agreed softly. "But the guy I killed was a volunteer. Terminally ill, at St. Mungo's, already had three suicide attempts... It's just... the look on his face, right before... And Lestrange acted like it was nothing, didn't even bat an eyelid, and the guy just was... lying there... on the ground, and Lestrange said, 'Okay, that's that, let's see how you do this next step' and all I could think about was what I had just... destroyed. Just like that. Merlin."

R.J. swallowed and looked up at the ceiling, where dark grey clouds moved across a night sky. Hermione stared down at her food, suddenly having lost her appetite. R.J. felt so terrible about it. How could someone _not_ feel remorse after something like that? _How?_ And especially when it wasn't voluntary, when it was a person who just had their life ripped out from under them with no regard for the people they knew, and afterwards they were just a blank patch on the face of the earth –

Hermione found herself staring at Riddle. He had done this... so many times. Harry's parents, gone – with all the people who had loved and cherished them left behind on Earth, Lupin, Sirius, Hagrid, Dumbledore, the entire Order, Harry... and even people like Slughorn, who couldn't ever really understand what it was like to see a person as a person and not an object for collection, but he was still _connected_ to them. And that was just those two – so many tears shed over those two lives, and this lean, attractive, intelligent boy had done it _countless times._

She felt a little sick, then, and she dropped her fork back on her plate, where it landed with a desolate clatter. R.J. looked up at her. "Hey, don't worry," he said gently, a warm look on his kind face. "It'll be fine."

Hermione nodded and smiled weakly, _almost_ wishing she could tell him everything – but no. It would endanger them both. "Thanks, R.J.," she told him. "I think I'm going to go up to bed."

"Yeah," he said. "Sleep well."

She trailed absentmindedly up the stairs, running her fingers through her hair in puzzlement. She suddenly didn't feel like returning to her discovery of that morning. It seemed risky... almost dangerous. Messing with the threads of the soul was Dark stuff, surely, even if it was to get back to Earth. What would she be sacrificing to get herself home?

Hermione rubbed at her eyes in frustration. This miserable feeling inside her chest wouldn't go away. It was nearly like dread – dread for what had already happened, and dread about what was yet to come.

xXxXxXxXx

Riddle lay awake in his bed, staring at the dark ceiling. The day had been... almost... enjoyable?

He hadn't enjoyed anything that didn't involve hurting people in a long while – besides _perhaps_ associating with Granger, which was always a bit of a stimulating intellectual challenge – but the snow war had been so close to an actual war that he supposed it wasn't _too _strange to have enjoyed it. The oddest thing about the day, though, was that when he thought back to the snowball fight, the first image that came into his mind was a perfectly clear picture of Granger laughing, her clear brown eyes glimmering and crinkled at the sides, her pink lips spread so far in an open-mouthed smile that Riddle was surprised it hadn't hurt.

He made it a point not to remember faces. Not remembering faces was a handy mental tactic he employed to separate himself from the rest of the world – if he was going to treat them like mindless sheep, then why should he give them names, remember who they were? They were disposable.

So why couldn't he get _her_ face out of his head? Riddle closed his eyes and tried to sleep, his face pressed lightly against the lush pillows of the Head Boy quarters, but it didn't really work, because all he could think about was what _she_ knew and how, so far, all of his methods had completely failed on her.

He still didn't even know how she knew the name. He had burrowed through the minds of Revelend and Abraxas, but neither of them had said a word to her about the name; in fact, Revelend had never said _a_ word to her. He supposed that, yes, in the real world he must have done something of weight, something to make Lord Voldemort famous, something that would make an eighteen-year-old girl know who he was.

She wasn't just any regular eighteen-year-old girl, though, of course. She knew more about offensive magic than _any_ girl he had ever even met. It was a pity that she was a Mudblood, and a Gryffindor, because he would have liked that she join his ranks. Someone who could withstand the fury of the Cruciatus Curse would be useful indeed. Actually, even if she was a Mudblood, she could still be useful if she joined him. Very useful. It was something to consider, at least...

His mind settled a little, and Riddle managed to get to sleep, though he didn't dream of anything. He never really dreamed about anything, and he never really knew why, either.

* * *

**Yup, so that's that. Eh, don't take too much out of that last bit about Riddle not really dreaming. It's not a significant plot twist or anything.**


	12. Chapter 12

**Millions of thanks to:**

** Smithback, MissImpossible, madluv, Duchess of Discourse, Sneaky Nixie, Isabelene, Joy, NougatEvolution, bingbing196, Scarlett, DBM33, ChildoftheLight, xXBlueDazeXx, f4vivian, ilikebluepineapples, xXsmanthaXx, BooklvrAnnie, ClaireReno, sexy-jess, sweet-tang-honney, Kitsune, Vinwin, thesomnambulist, XellamyBB, Brilliant, Nerys, Taylah, Magentasouth, Iklepsis, jessika black, beck, N3k0 T3nsh1, tanzainy, licious461, Anna on the Horizon, Risottonocheese, iamweasleyfred, Remusat, Selene98, kromoon23, KeitarosKeroNeko, and MissMusa.**

* * *

She should not have started off that day by smiling.

It was the third of December, and she should have woken up with a wail of despair, or with a tear trailing down her cheek. She should have known, somehow.

But she woke up with a small smile on her lips. She had had a good dream. And she got dressed in her winter clothes. That day, she wore a black sweater, a bulky green coat, Muggle jeans, and knee-high rubber snow boots. And she walked down the stairs. That day, she nearly tripped on the third step down, but she caught herself on the railing. And she hummed a tune that sounded vaguely like the chorus to Weasley is our King. That day, it took her all that time to realize that this world would never be the same.

She reached the bottom of the steps, looked up, and instantly knew something was wrong. As was her usual custom, she immediately assumed the worst. But this time, unlike the usual, she was right.

Godric had Mina enfolded in a hug, her head tucked under his chin, and he was biting his lip, tears leaking slowly down from his closed eyes. Mina was shaking, letting out muffled whimpers, and Godric was shushing her gently, his tall body swaying a little.

Hermione stopped, her eyes wide. Godric opened his green eyes slowly, and they found Hermione, and he didn't say anything, just closed his eyes again and sort of shook his head.

It took them a while to muster up the courage to go down to the Great Hall. Most of the Gryffindors looked duly downcast, but they had left the so-called 'honors' up to Godric, Mina and Hermione.

Godric halfheartedly stood, banging a spoon on a dish tiredly. The noise in the Great Hall ceased, as if the whole room was holding its breath to hear, and when Godric said it, it was as if there was a great whispering sigh, sending Godric floating back down to sit on the bench. And Hermione, though she was sitting, felt as if she could easily just drift over and fall. She looked at the spot next to her, not feeling like her eyes were actually seeing the space that was there, not feeling like it was her mouth that was chewing the food, not feeling like it could be her sitting there and absorbing the shock of the day.

Surely, if it were actually her sitting there, she would be _used_ to losing everyone she knew. This was just one more person, one more Boggart she could stumble in on and scream at, one more soul she could never again see. One more person who would never comfort her in the early morning. One more person she would never again speak with, one more person who would never again make jokes about Tom Riddle, one more person who would never again brush back his black hair with a sort of gentle confidence, one more person who would never again be offended by cracks about his masculinity, one more person who would never again take every shot Mina threw at him and just smile. One more person to whom life had been cruel.

Hermione, Godric, Mina, Albus and Miranda had to leave breakfast early. Hermione knew she couldn't deal with it, and for the rest, who had known R.J. the entire ten years he had been there – it was like losing someone they had known all their lives.

Hermione buried her face in her hands and closed her eyes. Had it just been earlier this week –even yesterday – that she had felt that she might have romantic feelings for R.J.? Of course, he would be taken immediately afterwards. Of course, the world would shower this misfortune on the people who had already had sufficient misfortune to last them for quite a while.

"Why was it him?" Mina suddenly ground out, her voice thick and nasal, her small nose red. "I've been here for so much longer – we all have – why was it _him_ and not _me_? Us?"

"Don't say that," whispered Godric, his face as grave and hollow as Hermione had ever seen it.

"This was what he wanted," Hermione said gently. She never was that good at reassuring people, especially herself... but it was true. He had wanted to move on, feel his soul join back together, even if that meant death – and Renee Sanderson, wherever she was – Hermione hoped she could find him when he was all healed up. "For his soul to mend. And it has."

Godric looked up at the ceiling, sniffing helplessly. "I know," he said, "but I – I mean, how am I supposed to feel happy about this? He was my best friend, for Christ's sake. Especially since Eric moved—"

He broke off, swallowing, and Mina put a comforting hand on his shoulder. Hermione didn't know who Eric was, but apparently this wasn't the first time this had happened to Godric.

"I'm sick of this," he murmured. "I just want to get out of here. You guys can't understand – I've been here for over two hundred years. _Two hundred_. And I keep seeing people move on through, but it's never _me_. I'm tired of getting attached and just getting hurt again."

Mina gently slipped her hand into his, and he squeezed it, giving her a grateful look. Hermione could only stare dismally at the ground.

"You know," Godric said, "sometimes I can almost wish I never did any of this—" he waved a hand vaguely at the Gryffindor common room – "so that I could just die, like any other person. I was old. I was ready."

"Don't say that," said Hermione in a small, fierce voice. "You've changed so many people's lives. You, and Rowena, and Helga, and Salazar – you can't think that you would trade this for _anything._"

Gryffindor had a small smile on his thin lips. "I – thanks, Hermione... but I'm so sick of being selfless, being glad I helped found Hogwarts when it means I'm having to suffer through what feels like an eternity of _this_ place."

"Everything happens for a reason," sighed Albus with a tired look in his blue eyes. He ran a hand through his wiry auburn hair. "Even if that reason isn't ever made apparent."

Miranda had a tiny smile on her lips. "I'm glad I'm here," she said. Hermione looked at her in surprise. Miranda continued, "You are the only friends I've ever had."

Hermione let out a breath in surprise. "What?"

"Everyone thought I was strange in school, so I didn't really have any friends, and then after I got out of Hogwarts, I locked myself up in my flat for thirty years. The most contact I ever had with someone was sending owls to publishers."

Wow. That was a strange thing to know about Miranda Goshawk – all Hermione had ever read about her was that blurb on the inside of the book flap, that she had lived in an apartment in London, and then a list of publishing credits. Hermione could tell from the look on Dumbledore's face that he had already known, but Godric and Mina looked as surprised as she felt.

Hermione swallowed and looked at Mina, who looked like she was getting ready to say something. _Damn_ – they were all talking about their lives. Would that mean she would have to do the same?

"I think one of the worst things about not dying before I came here," Mina said, "is that I will never know what I did with my life. At least death sort of provides some closure. I was only twenty-three... for all I know, I got married. Did something with my life."

"What exactly did you two do," Godric said, "that would have been the First Task, that made you come here?"

Albus cleared his throat and exchanged a glance with Mina. "We created a new species, actually. It took a while, and a lot of magic – we managed to merge this one type of Acromantula and an electric eel, using a quite intricate series of charms and transfigurations. The result was horrific, so an international panel of wizards opted to destroy it, and the next thing Mina and I knew... we were here."

Hermione shook her head. The more she learned about the different ways people could get there, the less she understood. She supposed that an animal was nearly like a character object in that it learned to function by itself, but it was a bit harder to wrap her mind around.

Silence fell. Hermione didn't say anything, even though there was a gentle nudge in the atmosphere for her to talk about her past life. What was there to say? I was heartlessly murdered by the most evil Dark Wizard of all time? I was an innocent teenager until my opportunity to be a child was struck down by people getting killed all around me? The most amazing, inspiring people I've ever known were all murdered?

Faces of the fallen flashed through Hermione's mind. That last month... that month she had run, and run, and run, before ending up in the Room of Requirement – remembrance brought pain. And the things she had seen. Things she could not un-see. Bellatrix Lestrange in a blue-lit room alone with Seamus Finnegan and Hannah Abbott, her eyes lit with a nearly demonic glow. Fenrir Greyback sprinting down the hallway, slavering after Ernie MacMillan. Those three, all eighteen and nineteen. She couldn't tell if they had been Boggarts, or if they had been real – Mrs. Weasley on her knees, screaming in pain – Avery dragging Ginny around by her long, red hair – Luna suspended by her ankles, a dead look on her pale face, swinging back and forth, so slowly – Neville back-to-back with a boy in Ravenclaw robes, iron rods impaling both their bodies – Kingsley Shacklebolt's disembodied head, sitting there on the flagstones, eyes closed –

Hermione swallowed and suppressed the thoughts. She had worked too hard to get rid of those memories, worked too long to convince herself that those were Boggarts, all of them, which most of them very well might have been. At least Harry and Ron were safe, she thought; yes. They were safe. Her death had pretty much ensured it. And thank God for that.

xXxXxXxXx

Riddle watched as Granger and her friends fled the Great Hall with a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. This was perfect for his plan, but he didn't have the usual sensation of victory he got when something clicked perfectly into place. He didn't know how to describe this, exactly – it was like a weight was sitting in his chest. Whenever people around him moved on, Riddle didn't really care. If it was a follower, it was inconvenient, but there could always be replacements. He didn't quite understand what that sensation he got as he watched Granger's face was– she was clearly about to cry – but he shunted it away. It was unnecessary to spend time wallowing in emotion. Emotions never helped anyone.

Regardless, the King boy moving on was most definitely a boon for Riddle's plan. If the other two Gryffindors were together, and Dumbledore and Goshawk were as attached at the hip as always, then Granger would be stranded in her misery. That was an optimal situation.

So why didn't he feel triumphant?

In fact, the utter lack of triumph was swelling into an utterly foul mood. Riddle's face was as dark as thunder as he stood up and stalked away from the table. Malfoy and Godelot exchanged a worried look as he left.

"Shouldn't that have been a good thing?" muttered Abraxas to Revelend, watching Riddle's tall form stride off through the doors. Riddle's face was curled in a furious snarl as he turned the corner swiftly.

"I would have thought so," said Revelend quietly, shrugging. "Well, none of us did anything this time, so he can hardly get mad."

Abraxas laughed humorlessly. "Oh, yes, he can. He can always get mad."

Araminta was staring after Riddle dejectedly. She turned back to the other two and whined, "Why—"

"Don't ask me," Abraxas interrupted hurriedly, and stood. He didn't want to be subjected to speaking about Riddle with Araminta – the complete obliviousness she had towards his true nature was always unsettling to encounter. Revelend followed him quickly, and they walked out of the Great Hall.

xXxXxXxXx

Hermione made her way through the portrait hole quietly, only to find herself climbing back out so as to avoid interrupting Mina and Godric, who were kissing passionately in that red chair in the corner. She had _hated_ that chair when Ron and Lavender had been the ones in it, and she was growing to hate it again due to the increasing time Mina and Godric were spending in its plushy grip.

She chided herself for caring – in the wake of losing their friend, Mina and Godric had the right to want to feel comforted, especially by each other, since they were each other's best friends and all – but Hermione couldn't help but feel a bit downhearted when she didn't see the other two the entire day after R.J. had vanished. That had been a tough day; Hermione buried herself in some good fiction writing, which she had never quite liked as much as non-fiction, but it helped get her mind away from R.J..

She missed him more with every passing hour, it seemed. She hadn't realized how much she had become accustomed to all her friends, and R.J. had always had such an underwhelming presence until he spoke – Hermione kept feeling like she had missed someone incredible, like he had slipped by and she had managed to grab his hand for a couple seconds but then let go just as quickly... It was terrible remembering his face, his smiles, because every time she did, the faces of everyone else threatened to come back, too. R.J. was in that category now. The lost. The fallen. The before.

Hermione needed some fresh air. She had spent the better part of two days sitting around, unable to concentrate on anything, unable to _do_ anything. She turned and made her way up to the Owlery.

She supposed she shouldn't have been surprised when it was completely devoid of birds - birds and the usual foul stench of the Owlery. Hermione sighed and trailed her finger along the perches. This was the one of the highest points of the Hogwarts building, and from here she could see out into the distance, out through as far as the snow extended, until it abruptly stopped at the end of Melia's storm radius.

Hermione stuck her head out of the window, breezes buffeting at her face. It smelled clean and crisp up here.

The room was unpleasantly drafty, though. Maybe she would go down to the dungeons and brew a potion, or something – get her mind off things –

But when she turned around, she wasn't alone. Tom Riddle leaned in the doorway, looking bored.

"Oh," she said.

"I saw you coming up here," he said, "so I followed."

She nodded. "Evidently."

He uncrossed his arms. "I haven't seen you in a few days."

"No."

Riddle thought fast. What was it that people always told people in distress...? "I... well, if you need to talk to someone, I'm here," he said slowly. Was that right? That sounded right.

Hermione sighed. His offer had a complete lack of surety, which made her certain that it was insincere. "Tom," she said, getting ready to chide him, and then broke off. She didn't have the energy. "How's your potion coming along?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Not bad. It needs a few adjustments, still."

"Still not going to tell me what it's for?" Hermione said with a wan smile. Riddle was struck by how exhausted she appeared. What had she been doing, hunting trolls?

"No," he said. "No matter how tired you look."

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "I look tired?"

"Quite," replied Riddle. "Actually, you look practically dead."

"Dead, eh? Funny how that works out," laughed Hermione mirthlessly. One side of his mouth rose in a sort-of smile. "I just haven't been... sleeping much, lately," she continued.

"Oh?"

"Actually, I haven't been doing much at all. Not since R.J. moved. Everyone's too depressed to really do anything."

Riddle raised his eyebrows. Why did it matter so much to these Gryffindors when someone moved on? It wasn't like it was some huge tragedy, so why were they acting like their pet cat had been Splinched or something? Those who moved were the lucky ones, really...

"Well, Abraxas suggested we go raid Honeydukes before Dueling Club," he said. "If that would help you get out of your misery, perhaps you'd like to come along?" Abraxas hadn't suggested that at all, but it seemed more likely that the blustery, jovial Abraxas would want to go to a candy store than Riddle.

Granger looked a little surprised, as if shocked that Riddle did something other than sit in the Slytherin common room and curse people. He smirked a little at the thought. "Yeah," she finally said, her slightly reddened eyes meeting his. "That sounds... nice." Hermione scrutinized his face, with a bit of suspicion in her gaze. "As long as Melly isn't there."

Riddle smirked. "No, Araminta won't be in attendance."

"Good."

"Well, then – where shall we meet you?" Riddle asked politely. "The Great Hall? Sundown?"

"Sure," she said, and looked like she was sort of trying to smile.

Riddle sighed. "Listen," he said, trying to soften the usual ordering tone of voice he had when he told people to listen to him. "Wherever your... friend is, he's probably a lot better off than being here."

Hermione smiled then, and looked back out the window. The sun cast harsh light onto her features as her smile faded, making her look mature and pensive. Riddle leaned against the wall, surveying her calmly. "I know," she whispered, and he barely caught the words. "It's just hard to know that I'll probably never see him again. Ever."

And, just like that, she shut her eyes and a tear slipped off her long eyelashes. Panic swelled within Riddle. _Oh, no, tell me this isn't happening._ He folded his hands behind his back. "You may," he said hesitantly.

Hermione glanced back at him and wiped her eyes with an amused sniffle. She could see the terror building behind his eyes. Of course, he wouldn't know what to do when confronted with a girl in distress. Not one he was trying to be nice to, anyway. _Was that him reassuring me?_ Yet, strangely, Hermione did almost feel reassured by the two simple words. _You may. _How did that work, when nothing any of her friends said had had any sort of effect? She let out an almost-laugh and turned back to the window. Far below, someone dressed in a red sweater slid on their stomach across the lake. The Ravenclaw Quidditch team flew around the pitch.

And a strange buoyancy built in Hermione's chest. R.J. was no longer trapped here, and someday she would join him in death – and she didn't know whether she would see him again, but – _you may – _there was just as much chance that she would as that she wouldn't.

Now the unease was apparent on Riddle's face, like human emotion was completely foreign to him. Hermione sighed, and she suddenly felt a strange sort of pity for him. He had really never felt the pain of a loss.

He was fiddling with a ring on his finger. Her eyes flew to it. _Horcrux, horcrux, horcrux..._

Of course he had never really felt a loss. The biggest loss he had ever had, that of his father, had been self-inflicted. And, Hermione thought with a twinge of fear, it had already happened. This boy, standing before her, was fully aware that he had murdered his own father.

"I, um – tha—"

But, again, she couldn't say thank you. She broke off awkwardly, just looking at Riddle.

"I'm done crying, so you can calm down," she said instead, and a faintly amused look, colored with relief, made its way onto his face. She turned back to the window.

"All right," he said. Had it really been so obvious that he was having a small panic attack? Or was it just the fact that she constantly seemed to know what he was thinking? Now, though, the familiar triumphant feeling was building inside him. He, Abraxas, and Granger were going to go and do something normal. And _he_ had orchestrated it, very smoothly, and had even, strangely, managed to make her stop crying...

Yes; he was very proud of the work he had done. It was time to leave. "I'll see you at -"

"Don't go," she said, still not facing him, and he was stunned by the quiet sound of need in her voice. Something inside his chest felt like it was burnt by the words, like a tiny vibration that made him _hear_ so much more than he had been hearing –

But he was Tom Riddle. He couldn't let her forget that, and she couldn't keep getting away with telling him to do things...

"What?" he said. "Care to say that again?"

She turned back to him, and now a half-smile was on her face, and he didn't know why. "I said to stay, Riddle, and there's no need to get smug about it."

He slowly walked over to join her by the window, choosing not to address her last comment. "What are you looking at that's so utterly fascinating?"

She shrugged. "Just... when I look at this Hogwarts like this, I feel like I can almost pretend I'm back home." A hint of a smile appeared on her face.

Riddle didn't understand. "What exactly do you miss so much about being back on Earth?"

"The people," she answered without even thinking. "The fact that there were so many people. Made everything so much... better."

Riddle stared out at the nearly-empty landscape, with just the few flecks of human color spattering the blank white snow. He hadn't really ever missed... the _number_ of people. There would always be two types of people: those who mattered, and those who didn't, and as far as Riddle was concerned, that would never change. "How?"

"Well, there were just that many more people to get to know, to understand, to help," she told him. There was that word again – _help_. Why should she want to help people that wouldn't even necessarily want to be helped, or who wouldn't help her in return? It wasn't prudent, to care so much. Everyone knew the less you cared about others, the more power you held.

"People aren't worth helping," he said before he could stop himself. Hermione turned to face him. He expected bafflement, or disgust – but all he saw was a sort of sad resignation.

"That's where you're completely wrong," her light voice said quietly as her eyes scanned his. "Everyone is worth helping."

He leaned on an elbow idly. "Even the vilest of criminals?"

Something flickered in her gaze. "Yes," she whispered. "Even... even them."

He raised his eyebrows and glanced back outside. "Why?"

She let out a breath in mild frustration, as if she were attempting to explain the meaning of a very long word to a very young child. Riddle felt a bit foolish, for reasons he didn't quite understand. "Because," she said patiently, "everyone was made with a heart, and a soul, and everyone was made to be loved by someone and love someone in return."

Everyone in Gryffindor _was_ extraordinarily sentimental, apparently. But the things she said weren't just sappy words – there was in them the same pure conviction that was behind everything she always said. She honestly believed she was right, and that made Riddle think about the words instead of just laughing derisively. An unusually self-pitying thought sprang unbidden into his mind.

_If everyone was made to be loved, then where did God go wrong when he put me on the Earth?_

Riddle let out a light scoff. Hermione shot him a glance out of the corner of her eye. Of course he wouldn't understand compassion, understand unconditional and universal love. She should have known better even than to try. This was where he would change the subject, probably, back to something he could comprehend, talk about with ease.

"That sounds like Healer philosophy," mumbled Riddle instead, and Hermione was surprised. "Were you thinking of being a Healer?"

Hermione shrugged. "I like the idea, but I don't know if I could do it."

"Why?"

She twirled a lock of her hair around her finger, over and over, and Riddle found himself watching. "Well, to be a Healer – you have to heal everyone who needs help, regardless of who they are. And as much as I believe in the concept of second chances, I don't think I could get past personal prejudice in... some cases." Her mind flew to Bellatrix Lestrange. She'd murdered Sirius. Neville's parents. Bellatrix was simply psychotic – what _good_ would healing her ever do for anyone?

Riddle swallowed. Though he had not intended it, this conversation was actually veering towards something that might reveal useful information.

He treaded carefully with his words. "So even if someone was lying there dying that needed your help, if you hated them enough, you couldn't bring yourself to heal them?"

As he said the words, an image burst into his mind. His vision was swimming as he lay on the floor in the hallway, hot blood bathing his torso, trickling out and soaking his robes, and Granger was standing over him, a strange look on her face, one that he could not understand – standing there far too long for it to just be surprise –

The young woman next to him looked at him frankly, and said, "No. I couldn't." She didn't bat an eyelid. Her hazel eyes revealed nothing at all.

He had a physical reaction to the word. It was as if... well, it wasn't pleasant. It was like someone had thumped him, hard, in the chest. His eyes fell to her lips, the lips that had dropped that word as if it was nothing – surely she knew what he was thinking about; surely she knew that he had been talking about himself.

Riddle found that his mouth was dry. He licked his lips slowly and then looked away again, leaning on the windowsill. A question made its way to the forefront of his mind: _Why do you hate me?_ She said that even the worst of criminals deserved help, but she would just stand there and let him bleed dry because of so-called 'previous prejudice'? What had he done, that she could detest him so much? Moreover, why the hell should he care? Why did he find that he was actually perturbed by her hatred? Wasn't hate good? Hate bred fear, and fear bred control.

Did she _mean_ for him to know that she hated him too much to save his life? Was it some sort of tactical strike, saying that? Riddle twisted the ring on his finger until the skin around it turned red.

"Look," she said, and he straightened back up.

"I should be going," he interrupted quietly. Hermione took her forearms off the windowsill and brushed her jacket free of dust, a little puzzled. She was facing him now, her head tilted a little upwards to meet his eyes, but she couldn't see any sort of giveaway emotion to show why he suddenly had to leave.

"Why?"

"I should go," he said, and his voice was softer than ever. He blinked, and his eyes softened, too, suddenly.

Then he leaned down and gently brushed his warm lips against her cheek, sending a rush of his smell into her, an unforgettable smell, sweeter than any cologne and more dangerous than any poison. Blood rocketed to her face in a heated red blush. Her mouth opened slightly in absolute shock. He lingered above her skin for a split breathless second before withdrawing with a cold rush. Where his lips had touched her, she felt like she had been branded, and her hand was suddenly there, tracing the spot.

Riddle was already walking out the door, straightening his dark jacket. Her wide eyes were glued to him as he vanished from sight. She swayed slightly, her hand reaching out and grabbing the windowsill to steady herself. She tried to think, but every thought was wiped clean from her mind, and the first word that hesitantly managed to come back to her was: _What?_

xXxXxXxXx

Tom Riddle sat on the sofa in the empty common room, his hands on either side of him, pressed into the black leather as if to steady himself. He didn't know why he had added that kiss on the cheek. It had been oddly involuntary – he had just felt like it was a good time to take that action. He cursed not having looked back at her to see her reaction – that would have been helpful to gauge the next appropriate step.

She had smelt nice, he mused. Something raw and fresh, not dainty and delicate like most girls. His mind had been strangely free, strangely blank as his lips had touched her soft skin, like he had allowed himself a single second of respite before snapping back to the usual calculations. A single second to feel the girl in front of him. A single second allotted to just her. Granger's hair had lightly brushed his nose – he could still feel the touch of it.

It was strange. He had done other, far more intimate things with girls before, and he couldn't even remember anything about those nights, couldn't remember ever stopping his thought process to allow them a second of his time. After all, every second was valuable. He wondered what he had been planning while those girls had been in the heat of pleasure, wondered if any of them ever had the brains to see that he really wasn't there with them at all –

Malfoy entered the common room. Riddle raised a hand lazily, and Abraxas instantly veered towards him as if he were magnetized. Riddle blinked and smirked, removing his thoughts from physical things.

"Good afternoon," Riddle said. Malfoy lowered his head a little in response. "Listen, Abraxas," Riddle said sharply, "I hope you have no previous engagement for this evening."

Malfoy's heart sank. That usually meant a meeting, which usually meant curses and plotting, and he had wanted at least one night off from demonstrative pain this week. "Of course not," he answered, the words bitter in his mouth.

"Lovely," said Riddle. "I've told the Granger girl that we would meet her outside the Great Hall at sundown."

Malfoy frowned and lifted his head hesitantly. Riddle was looking at the ring on his finger, not clarifying. Then he met his eyes, and Malfoy instantly dropped his gaze to the floor again, his heart suddenly beating fast. "You are, no doubt, wondering why," mused Riddle.

"Yes, Master," whispered Abraxas in relief, but he felt scared about the reason. He didn't know if he could bring himself to help Riddle torture an innocent girl, one who had helped him when he was hurt—

"I've told her that we were going to go and raid the sweets shop down in Hogsmeade," Riddle mumbled, and was that a tinge of embarrassment on the edge of his voice? Abraxas felt the urge to laugh rising in his chest. "I told her it was your idea, of course," said Riddle hurriedly, his glare darkening as a look of merriment entered Malfoy's oh-so-transparent grey eyes.

"Yes, of course," Malfoy said, willing down the laugh. Merriment in front of this boy when they were alone was never a good idea. "Just us three?"

Riddle shrugged. "I don't know. It was your idea, Abraxas," he said.

Malfoy nodded slowly. "In that case, I think Revelend and Herpo might like to come along, so the Granger girl doesn't feel so on-the-spot."

"What a pleasant idea," said Riddle with a hint of irony at the edge of his voice. He smirked and stood, brushing imaginary dust from the front of his crisp black pants. He hoisted his dark grey jacket back up on his slim shoulders. "Do ask them, won't you?"

And he left.

Malfoy let out a relieved sigh. No punishment – and, better, chocolate. That was always an appealing option. A comfortable smile settled back onto his face. He checked in the mirror, patted his short hair gently back into place, and went to find the others.

xXxXxXxXx

Hermione hadn't found Mina or Godric to tell them where she was going, but she supposed she would see them at Dueling Club. Godric was in charge, after all; he sort of had to be there.

She still couldn't get the smoldering feeling of Riddle's kiss off of her cheek – every time she thought back to it, there was a strange tingle there, a remembered whisper of the touch of him. She was still bewildered.

Hermione thought back to what they had been talking about, what he might have thought was his cue to leave.

What was it he had said?

_ "So even if someone was lying there dying that needed your help, if you hated them enough, you couldn't bring yourself to heal them?"_

She had said, "No," without even really thinking about what might be running through his mind – after all, her thoughts had been occupied with Bellatrix Lestrange, with images of Neville's poor parents – but it was never safe to take Riddle at face value, and as she reexamined the quote, it became clear. Obvious, even. Of course – he had been talking about _himself_. How the _hell_ had she missed that? She could blame the feeling of looking into his dark eyes, of course, that swimming, floating feeling, and she could blame her thoughts at the time, and she could blame any number of things, but the fact remained that she still _should_ have seen what he really meant.

Merlin – now he probably knew, knew exactly how much she distrusted him. A completely involuntary revelation.

Strangely, though, Hermione found that she actually _couldn't_ say she hated this Riddle, not even considering what he had already done at the age of eighteen. Why was that?

Maybe it was because of that rush of pity she got not-so-infrequently, now, whenever he displayed how plainly averse he was to any sort of social normalcy. In fact, Hermione discovered with horror, her inherent dislike had faded and turned into curiosity. She was now more interested in him than afraid of him, and that was _not_ good. No. To keep the upper hand, she had to remain pleasantly detached – but then why was there this itching burn to _know_ everything about how his mind worked, to know _why_ he did what he'd done? Why did it _matter_ why he'd done it? Wasn't the important thing that he _had_ done it, and shouldn't that have been enough reason for her to just stay away from him?

Evidently not, Hermione thought wryly as she rounded the corner. A familiar figure stood by the entrance to the Great Hall.

"Hello, there," Hermione said awkwardly, not wanting to meet Riddle's eyes, so instead she looked at Abraxas. To her discomfort, there were two other Slytherin boys there – Herpo and Revelend. Revelend Godelot was about Riddle's height, and he had short, light brown hair, and a distant look in his green eyes. Herpo the Foul was several inches shorter than Riddle, and smaller, too, with a shock of long black hair that was highly Snape-reminiscent. _I can't believe I'm hanging around with a guy whose last name is 'the Foul'..._

Herpo looked around awkwardly. "Granger," greeted Riddle softly. He, too, seemed unwilling to make eye contact. "This is Revelend, and this is Herpo. You two, this is Hermione Granger."

"Great," said Abraxas, rubbing his hands together. "Now that we're all acquainted, can we go? I haven't had any caramels in far too long, and I'm sure you miss those acid pops, don't you, Herpo?"

Herpo laughed and knocked Abraxas with his shoulder. Hermione, with a twinge of pain, was strangely reminded of Godric and R.J., and she blinked and followed the Slytherins out of the door.

"I thought you said it was just going to be us and Abraxas?" she asked Riddle quietly as the other three horsed around up ahead.

"You don't mind, do you?" he asked, an amused curl in his lip. "Feel intimidated?"

"Shut up," she mumbled, rolling her eyes. "No; after someone meets you, it's a bit tough to feel intimidated by anyone else."

Riddle straightened as she said it, as if satisfied by her response. "I don't suppose you made many trips to Hogsmeade in your day?" he asked. She was a bit surprised by the question.

"Well, yes, I did," said Hermione. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh... but – the only people who ever go to Hogsmeade are people who are..." He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Well, going on dates," Riddle said slowly, looking down at her. 'Dates' – what a strange word to hear from his mouth.

She laughed. "No, that's changed," she told him. "Everyone goes these days. Friends, alone, in groups, whatever." There was a slight pause. "What are you implying, that you don't think I could get a date?" she said suddenly, a scowl on her face, and kicked some snow at his leg.

"I said no such thing," he replied primly, taking out his wand and flicking it. Snow showered down onto Hermione. She drew her wand, then, and waved it, but Riddle poked his wand at her flying snowball, and it veered off-course and ended up smacking into the back of Abraxas' blond head, ruining his impeccable hair. They all stopped walking.

Malfoy turned around ominously, his huge scowl comical in the half-light. "All right, who was that?" he demanded.

Hermione and Riddle exchanged a quick glance, and each instantly pointed at the other.

Abraxas shrugged, drew his wand, and dumped piles of snow onto both of them. Revelend and Herpo let out splutters of laughter.

"Oh, you'll pay for that, Malfoy," said Hermione, and she raised her wand, but before she could do anything, Abraxas had broken into a sprint. "GET BACK HERE!" she yelled, and gave chase, but he was already far ahead.

Revelend and Herpo managed to argue about a use of basilisk venom all the way to Hogsmeade while they ran alongside Hermione. Finally, Hermione had to dive in and correct them both exasperatedly. Just like Harry and Ron – how they were completely incorrect about various things, especially Astronomy... that class had taken a lot of coaching, Hermione remembered with a bit of a smile. Of course, Revelend Godelot and Herpo the Foul, two of the most knowledgeable people about the Dark Arts – they were hardly Harry and Ron.

Finally, they stumbled to a halt outside Honeydukes. Abraxas was already inside, and Revelend and Herpo shouldered their way into the bright store with their eyes lit up. Hermione cast a glance around for Riddle, and found that they had managed to lose him.

It had started snowing again – _thanks, Melia _– and thickly, too. Hermione couldn't even see his silhouette approaching.

"Riddle?" she called tentatively, and then, again, louder. "_Riddle_?"

She looked at the ground and saw that their footprints were filling in with snow. It wasn't easy to get lost on the way to Hogsmeade, but it was definitely possible – Neville had managed it many a time, and during a good storm, Hermione herself had even managed to wander around aimlessly for a while.

Sighing, she walked quickly back in the direction of the footprints, casting an Impervius on her clothes and a quick Calenta on her hands for some extra warmth. Squinting around in the thick swirls of snow, Hermione thought, _Lumos!_ Her wand cast a warm globe of white light outwards, illuminating beautiful white flakes. As she peered over the small bridge over which they had come a few minutes ago, a tall figure made its way into sight, also holding up an illuminated wand.

"Riddle?" she said loudly over the blustery wind.

"Granger?" his voice replied, and Hermione sighed in relief, and then stopped. Relief? At the wellbeing of Tom Riddle? _Dammit, Hermione!_ Angry with herself, she turned to walk back to the door of Honeydukes, but he had caught up already. "Melia Trueblood," he sighed, "needs to work on her timing."

Hermione couldn't help but nod in agreement and shiver a bit.

As they walked into Honeydukes, a rush of hot air warmed Hermione. She sighed in relief and took off her white jacket, slinging it over her shoulder. The other three boys were laughing over a bin of Cockroach Clusters.

"Hey, you two, come and look at this one," called Herpo, pointing into the bin.

Malfoy met Riddle's eyes, wondering what exactly Riddle had been doing with the girl outside. She didn't seem to be hurt, or even flustered at all, which was more than Malfoy could say for himself after he spent time with Riddle alone. She was a brave one, all right – Malfoy had been observing her for most of the evening, and had been shocked to see that sometimes she actually told Riddle to do things, as if he were just any other boy. Then again, perhaps Riddle had not broken his pleasant façade just yet. He did seem to be acting polite and even – dare it be said? – normal, so that was probably the case.

"Oh, I dare you to eat one," snickered Revelend, poking a Cluster with his wand.

Herpo shook his head, wrinkling his nose. "That's revolting, Godelot."

"I knew someone who ate one of these," Hermione said proudly, and the Slytherins stared at her in revulsion.

"Who?" asked Revelend in fascination.

Ron, of course, though it had looked like a Pumpkin Pasty when he had eaten it, thanks to Fred and George. "A… er, a friend of mine," she chuckled. The look on Ron's face... "How about you, Tom?" she said, levitating a Cluster up to Riddle's face. He leaned backward, an expression of utmost alarm on his dark features. "Fancy a cockroach or two?"

Riddle whipped out his wand and tapped the Cluster with it, and the golden candy turned into a soap bubble and popped gently. "Not today, but thanks for the offer," he said sarcastically.

Abraxas nearly shook his head in disbelief. He had never seen Riddle entertain anyone's jokes, or take them so lightly. In fact, that sarcastic retort had almost been good-humored. Whatever Imperius Curse the Granger girl had cast on Riddle, it was doing good work, Abraxas thought wryly.

"Oh, look at this," Revelend exclaimed. "Never-ending licorice." He tugged at the stick of licorice in the stand, and it came out – and out – and out – until he had about twenty feet of it in a pool around his feet.

Herpo wrinkled his nose again. "Licorice tastes like wax," he mumbled.

"Don't you like _any_ candy?" Malfoy asked disbelievingly.

"Hey, remember, he likes acid pops," snickered Revelend, waving one of the notorious lollipops in front of Herpo's face.

"_Not_ funny," said the smaller boy, and he flicked the acid pop away with a pale finger.

Hermione picked up an innocent-looking chocolate bar and broke off a chunk of it. "Is this safe to eat?" Hermione asked Riddle, peering down at the wrapper, which was written in some squiggly language that looked vaguely like a mixture of Arabic and Hindi.

"Of course," Riddle replied innocently, and Hermione popped the chocolate into her mouth.

She bit down, let out a muffled yell, and drew her wand in a flash, vanishing the chocolate. She shot a venomous glare at Riddle as the other three boys slowly looked at her. "You liar! This is a Chilean Chili Bar!" Fred had put some of a Chilean Chili Bar into her morning cereal one day. She recognized the familiar agonizing burn. "Merlin, got to get this taste out of my mouth," she groaned, hurrying over to another row of candy.

She looked up from gorging herself on a tray of gummies to see a Cockroach Cluster floating in front of her eyes. "To clear the taste?" offered Riddle smoothly, and she glared back at him as the other boys guffawed.

"Oh, you're hysterical," she said coldly, a stubborn look in her eyes.

"Come on, Granger, lighten up," laughed Abraxas.

Those words. _Lighten up, Hermione._ The millionth time she had heard them – though this had to be the first time a Slytherin had said them, especially a Malfoy...

She managed to find some actual chocolate, which wiped her mouth clean of the Chili Bar, and then she sighed and surveyed the Slytherins. They were so similar to her own friends; it was bizarre – ever-familiar with each other, just a little cold to outsiders, it seemed. And cold to Riddle. Yes, Riddle was just standing there, not included, unsmiling as usual, as if he had been assigned to supervise a bunch of children.

That stab of pity. _Again._ It really was annoying.

Hermione slid onto a barstool, pouring herself some hot chocolate. Shortly, the others joined her, and they all settled into a contented silence. "Is it time for Dueling, yet?" asked Revelend, and Hermione realized with surprise that she had already spent over an hour with the Slytherins – a _pleasant_ hour. Perhaps her own prejudice had colored all her time at Hogwarts without her even realizing it.

"Yes, we'd better get back," said Abraxas. He, Revelend, and Herpo trailed out of Honeydukes, leaving Hermione and Riddle in silence. Abraxas cast a last glance back before leaving.

There was a silence. They stood and walked slowly to the door. Riddle opened it for Hermione, and she walked through, and they hovered in the small pool of light in front of the door in the swirling snow, and then they both turned to each other and started talking.

"Granger, about this afternoon..."

"Riddle—"

They lapsed back into silence. "You first," Riddle muttered.

"I wanted to say that I appreciate your coming to find me," Hermione said. "And you?"

"I wanted to thank you," Riddle mumbled, "for your patience."

Hermione frowned and turned to him. "Patience?" she asked.

"Well... yes. In a way. You keep having to explain all these notions to me that seem perfectly obvious to you, and it probably feels like quite a waste of your time," he said, a bit defensively, really just wondering if she would explain why she took the time to outline such notions to him.

Hermione sighed. "Do you understand when I tell you things about love, and hope, and all that?"

"No."

"Do you try?"

"Yes," he said honestly, snow falling and catching in his dark hair. He put his hands in his pockets.

"Then," Hermione said quietly, "it has never been a waste of my time. I have faith in you."

She wondered if she actually was having any sort of impact on him, whether her words really were making any dent in his own rock-solid and more-than-a-little distorted personal beliefs. He looked a little puzzled, now, and she just smiled. "Come on, we're going to be late." She set off into the snow.

Riddle watched her for an absentminded second before following. _I have faith in you?_ She had faith in him? What the hell was that supposed to mean? How? "What sort of faith?" he panted, hurrying after her.

"Faith that you can change," she said with a grin back at him. "From your Crucio-ing ways, you know, into a decent sort of person."

A decent sort of person. Riddle felt like he'd never really had the chance to be just a _decent sort of person_, that he had always been destined to be so much more, so different. He also felt that no one who had ever really known him believed he could be just a _decent sort of person_. Again, she had mystified him. Riddle's dark eyes looked up into the darkening, snowing sky, and wondered about her, and wondered about himself.


	13. Chapter 13

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The next week was bizarre for Hermione. The rumors were sneakier this time, and not filled with shock. Girls gave her strange looks in the halls, and it took DeLisle Andra visibly whispering to her friend while _staring_ nonstop for Hermione to finally wonder what the hell had happened. There wasn't anything on her face, surely?

But there were no jeers, no insults, no hisses like "I didn't know you had it in you, _Mudblood_," from Slytherins, like the time with Riddle's curse. As a result, Hermione didn't even know what was happening until the rumor somehow got around to Albus, and, for the first time since Hermione had arrived, he had a mildly disturbed look on his face as he spoke with her.

"Listen, Hermione," he said, "I heard from Jared Pippin that Tom Riddle asked you to the dance."

Hermione's jaw slowly dropped. "From _Jared Pippin_?" she said incredulously. He was in Ravenclaw, couldn't have been anywhere _near_ the classroom where Riddle had asked her – how did _he_ know?

"Yes," Dumbledore replied, unfazed by her shock. "Actually, pretty much everyone's heard at this point, except... apparently, you... but I -"

"Wait. 'Everyone's heard'?" Hermione said, and it clicked. That was why all those strange looks from all those girls! That was why they were acting so weird, why even Mina and Godric had seemed a little distant after Wednesday afternoon... well, _more_ distant, that was. It was as if they were on their own planet, now that they had realized their desperate urge to be together every waking second. Every sleeping second, too, sometimes.

Why would Riddle want that rumor to spread? Maybe it had been unintentional? He had taken her aside, after all – it wasn't as if he had asked her out in the open, where everyone could hear. And, of course, now that R.J. had moved on, no one would want to talk about it openly, if they knew the whole story. How very sneaky the whole thing was.

If it wasn't his intention to spread rumors, though, then what purpose could he possibly have had in asking her? That must have been the reason. An angry itch built at Hermione's chest, and the proverbial storm cloud descended to hang above her head. What a petty way to get to someone! Well, she wouldn't entertain his efforts by letting something so small and stupid irritate her.

Dumbledore looked a little perplexed, and Hermione jerked herself back to reality. "Sorry, Albus, I – I just realized – never mind. What were you saying?"

He gave a slight frown again, and Hermione was really worried now. With Dumbledore, even a look of utmost calm could be covering a worry, so for an actual frown to appear on his face was like a wild scream of caution. "I just wanted to express," said Albus carefully, "that I have my worries about Riddle."

"Oh, so do I," Hermione said, waving her hand as if it was nothing, but Dumbledore raised one of his hands and she fell silent again.

"You two seem to be... friends, now, and I respect that, but someone so shielded is not entirely easy to trust, or to understand," he continued, and there was a hidden undercurrent to his voice that made Hermione think that he might be talking about someone other than just Riddle. And, yes, his next words confirmed that suspicion. "Hermione, I don't know much about you other than that you are a very powerful and very talented witch, and I would hate to see that go to waste if you make yourself associated with... well, with someone who is as potentially Dark as Riddle. He is in Slytherin for a reason, after all, and I've been keeping a small eye on him, and I think there is sufficient reason to worry when you are around him."

Hermione nodded earnestly, but she was a bit unsettled by the blatant mistrust of Slytherins in his words. That didn't seem very much like something the Dumbledore she'd known would have said... "I do know all that, Albus, and I wouldn't say we're friends," she chuckled, not letting any unease show. "But there are things I need to... to learn from him, so I hope you won't take it the wrong way if you see me hanging around him."

She said the words and then nearly kicked herself. That sounded _terrible._ That sounded like a _very_ poorly disguised euphemism for Dark Arts. "Nothing bad," she reassured quickly. "Just... things."

Dumbledore didn't look satisfied. He let out a small sigh through his nose. "Very well," he said. "I trust you with your own life, of course." A small smile snuck its way back onto his mouth. "Now, if you'd excuse me – I have a lemon tart to tend to down in the Great Hall."

Hermione watched him go, holding back a sigh. She didn't want to fail Dumbledore's trust in her, but if she was going to break that trust just by _being around_ Riddle, what was there to do?

She was actually quite proud of the way she had been balancing her life recently. She saw Godric and Mina at most meals and in the Common Room throughout the day, and then at other times she would bump into Riddle and hold decent fragments of conversation with the boy. It was a good way to build up their uneasy truce.

In any case, she had managed to find a delicate balance between associating herself with Gryffindors and being around Slytherins, which was proving to help her stop thinking so constantly about having lost R.J., and she gave herself a pat on the back for it. She and Abraxas had even made a sort of friendship, since he was constantly around Riddle and often got sucked into their conversations. He really was strangely easy to get along with, boisterous and rowdy, with just a hint of the aristocracy in his mannerisms that seemed to define Lucius Malfoy. Hermione wondered what had happened to Abraxas, that he had ended up raising his son so poorly...

Hermione exited the doors of Hogwarts into the snow, turned left to go around the side of the school, and was completely taken by surprise.

"Arigulum Dagia!"

Before Hermione knew it, she was pinned against the wall, her feet high off the ground, and Araminta Meliflua was standing in front of her, looking almost confused. "You know, I heard something interesting today, Mudblood," she mused aloud. _Oh, no._

"Really, Araminta?" said Hermione, pasting a bland smile onto her face. She strained for her wand, but her hands were pressed flat against the wall by Araminta's spell and unable to move more than an inch in any direction. Araminta had her wand out, and the pure black rod was held up against Hermione's neck.

"Yes. I heard you've been sticking that ugly face of yours where it doesn't belong," said Araminta softly, "so I've been thinking about rearranging it for a while, now – and I'm just wondering which of your eyes would look better pasted in the middle of your forehead instead..." Hermione's stomach filled with fear at the words. That type of thing was very Dark magic, and if Araminta tried it and something went wrong, the results were potentially horrific. "It shouldn't hurt, if I do it right, but it will be more than a little grotesque to look at. You know, I did tell you to stay away from Tom, but I suppose a little handiwork on my part should nudge him in the right direction."

Araminta sighed, and the almost-puzzlement on her face grew. "I don't know how you've managed to spread word around that Tom asked you to the Christmas Dance, because the very idea is ludicrous, of course, but I've got to hand it to you, Granger – when you want someone, you do work very hard to -"

"Araminta?" called a male voice from around the side of the school.

Hermione let out an involuntary quiver of relief, and yelled "Here!" before Araminta could stop her – maybe it was Abraxas, or even Revelend or Herpo – someone who might help her get out of this mess. There was no saying whether Riddle would help her, if presented with the opportunity. Hermione suddenly remembered how he had just watched Araminta hurt her last time... but things had changed. If it _were_ Riddle, after all the decent, the bad, the just-plain-weird that their relationship had been through, Hermione felt like he would help her this time... maybe.

Then Eliot Vaisey appeared around the edge of the school. Hermione's heart sank. She didn't know anything about Vaisey, other than that he had kept levitating frogs into Godric's dormitory, and that didn't bode well.

Worse, Araminta had just said, "Silencio," and jabbed her wand at Hermione, so there would be no more cries for help.

"What are you doing?" asked Vaisey, bafflement wandering across his broad features. _Damn_, Araminta had chosen a good spot to attack. They were in a tiny dip of an alcove next to a huge jutting pillar, so Hermione was in the shade and very hard to see from afar. It would look like Araminta was just standing alone against the side of the castle until one was very close.

"Oh, hello, Vaisey," Araminta said, with a very insistent _leave-me-alone_ nudge to her voice. "Just taking care of some unfinished business."

Vaisey walked towards them, and suddenly noticed that there was a person pinned up against the wall, about two feet off the ground. He looked a bit surprised. "Who's that?" Vaisey asked, pointing to Hermione.

Araminta pursed her lips. "Just a Mudblood; don't worry about it."

A strange look passed across Vaisey's face, then. Hermione swallowed with difficulty – the restriction of her limbs seemed to be creeping up her body from her extremities, as if she was being frozen to the wall bit by bit.

"Oh. Is that... what's-her-name, Granger?" the boy asked, running a skinny hand through his light brown hair.

Araminta rolled her eyes in frustration. "Yes, Vaisey, it is. Don't you have to go oil your hair or something?"

She lifted her wand again, but before she could do anything, Eliot interrupted again. Hermione's heart thudded hard – waiting for something terrible to happen was never good; the inevitability might actually have been the worst part of Hermione's experiences with torture in the past –

"Actually, no," said Vaisey. "I was, um, coming to find you, because Tom – well, he – I – he wanted to... to ask you about, uh, something."

Araminta's wand hand dropped. _That_ got her attention. The girl turned to face Vaisey. "Really?" she said, her voice breathless. Hermione rolled her eyes feebly.

"He's, er, in the common room," Vaisey said, swallowing and gesturing jerkily. Hermione wondered why he was being so awkward about it. Then her mind snapped to the fact that Vaisey had called Riddle 'Tom'. That was... bizarre, to say the least – why had Vaisey seen fit to toss around Riddle's first name like that?

If it were anyone else, it wouldn't have been a big deal, but Riddle's name was _definitely_ a big deal. If Hermione were a Death Eater, or whatever the school version of that was, she wouldn't have risked calling him Tom if there were the slightest chance that he could think she was getting flippant and familiar. But there was an odd glint of fear in Vaisey's eyes, one that Hermione didn't fully understand.

"Thank you, Vaisey," Araminta said, and turned back to Hermione, her expression slowly morphing back into slight distaste. "As for you, you can just wait for a quick second until I get back. Vaisey, come on."

Vaisey swallowed and stumbled after the girl, who had yanked on his arm so hard that he had nearly fallen. He shot a last glance back at Hermione before vanishing around the corner with Araminta.

Hermione strained, but the only part of herself that seemed to have any sort of free will anymore was her face. The Silencing Charm that Araminta had used had been strong, and blunt, and would keep her from being able to make any sort of sound for a while. What would happen after Hermione lost the ability to breathe in of her own volition because of this freezing curse? Would she be able to keep breathing? What if she suffocated, right here, at the hands of a jealous witch, right next to a window into the Great Hall?

But no. Hermione's eyes flew back to the corner. Eliot Vaisey was hurrying back around it, alone this time. "I managed to get rid of her," he said in a low, quick voice, and flicked his wand. Hermione floated off the wall, suddenly in complete control of herself again, and she let out a small murmur – her voice was back, too. She was involuntarily impressed by his wandwork – nonverbal, and that couldn't have been removed by a simple Finite Incantatem. "You'd better run, before she gets back. Actually, now that I think about it..."

He stuck his wand back in his pocket. "Here, hex me," he said, holding out his arms to display his chest. Hermione was looking at him as if he had an extra head.

"What..." she started, but he interrupted.

"Just do it!" he hissed. "She'll get... suspicious, I don't know; just use Petrificus Totalus or something."

Hermione didn't need to be told again. The look of alarm on his face was really quite strange, but she cast the spell on him, whispered, "Thanks," and hurried away.

Why on earth would Eliot Vaisey, a completely random Slytherin, be worried about the wellbeing of a Gryffindor of Muggle descent? Especially when said Slytherin had been predisposed to childish acts of Gryffindor-hatred in the past? Hermione couldn't understand it at all. She walked down to the Quidditch pitch and ascended the stands slowly, watching her breath puff out in front of her. She frowned, blowing her hair out of her eyes. Why was everything she thought she knew about Slytherins going to hell these days?

She looked around the stands, and found that she was not alone. On the opposite side of the pitch sat... someone. But it couldn't be Riddle, even though it looked _exactly_ like Riddle, because Vaisey had _just _said that Riddle was in the common room, wanting to speak to Araminta.

Hermione stood up and walked through the creaking wooden stands, shooting glances over at the boy sitting there, but the closer she got, the more he looked exactly like Riddle.

Finally, she sat down next to him, and said, "What are you doing out here?"

He looked up from the book he was reading.

"Any reason I shouldn't be here?" he asked, looking a bit affronted.

"Well, yes, actually," said Hermione, "because Vaisey just told Melly that you were in the common room and wanted to speak to her."

"Oh, he did?" Riddle said. He didn't look surprised, which was, in itself, unsurprising. "That's interesting."

Hermione pursed her lips and glanced away. That wasn't an adequate response. Why would Vaisey lie and risk the wrath of Minty Mell, seemingly just to help Hermione? That didn't seem like it could be his only motive.

"Why would he say that?" Riddle mused aloud, looking out at the Quidditch pitch. Now confusion did color his dark eyes. "Moreover, why were you just standing there watching?" He turned those eyes on her, amusement replacing the confusion. "Espionage, perhaps?"

"No," she mumbled, looking away. "Araminta was actually threatening to rearrange my face at the time. But, the way I see it, why would Vaisey lie just to help me?"

She didn't really know why she was telling Riddle her entire thought process, or why he would even care in the first place, but he was looking vaguely interested. He even carefully marked his page and shut his book. "Rearrange your face?"

"Literally and figuratively," Hermione said.

Riddle tapped his foot agitatedly on the wooden bench in front of them. Hermione stared blankly at the three silver hoops on the home end of the pitch. "I mean, I'm very grateful to Vaisey for doing it, though," she admitted. "Araminta had this curse on me that froze me to the wall. Not exactly pleasant."

"She's not exactly pleasant," Riddle replied quietly.

Hermione faced him. "Then why do you continue to let her dangle off you, if you have no intention of returning her feelings? That's a bit mean, don't you think? Also, that type of thing doesn't exactly seem like the sort of thing you would entertain. Or, well, suffer."

He smirked. "I have an image to maintain," he sighed, and turned to meet her gaze. Hermione felt that familiar shock of looking him straight on, that pleasant and yet completely inappropriate tingle in her fingertips.

"Great," she said, "but could you tell her to keep my image essentially the same? She was talking about putting one of my eyes in the middle of my forehead."

"Oh, she couldn't do _that_ spell," Riddle said, as if he knew _exactly_ which one she was talking about. Which he probably did.

Hermione shrugged. "She's good at wandwork, despite what my friends insist. It's just that she can't seem to work nonverbally."

"Araminta," Riddle sighed, "has a bit of a problem with overconfidence. She tends to overreach her abilities and make small errors that turn out... direly."

Hermione snorted. "Well, then, she'd probably just end up cutting my eye out altogether. Although she could ask you for some assistance, since you're so experienced."

Her smirk matched his, and they both looked across the Quidditch pitch. "I don't think I would put that curse on you if given the chance," he commented quietly and impersonally, as if talking to himself.

Hermione shot him a glance. It was one of those strange comments that nearly seemed to be verging on the edge of nice, but then the inherent nature of the words just made the idea ridiculous. "Oh, really? Thanks ever so," she said sarcastically, looking away again. "Of course, a good _Crucio_ is never amiss, is that right?" Her words were filled with mock cheeriness.

He glanced back at her, a strange look on his face. "Actually, I do almost regret doing that," he murmured, and Hermione's head whipped around to look at him.

"Regret? Tom Riddle? Surely not," she said quickly, her heart beating rather faster than usual for no apparent reason.

"If only for the reason that it seems that you completely distrust me, now," he added quietly.

"There's a reason it's called an 'Unforgivable Curse', you know," she mumbled.

"What happened to all that beautiful and oh-so-naïve second-chance philosophy?"

"It's on Christmas vacation."

"Excellent way to celebrate the holiday spirit," Riddle commented with an almost-smile.

Hermione grinned. The quick-paced banter was something she had grown to appreciate, if nothing else. As long as she kept herself from saying anything too personal, the almost-preying edge seemed to wear completely off of the nature of their conversation. This was ironic, she mused, given that the only reason either of them could be speaking to the other was due to what they wanted to get out of them. Merlin knew she was just inexplicably curious about his private thoughts, nothing he would ever make known to her voluntarily.

"So," Riddle said, "why was Araminta attempting to curse you this time? Did you do something particularly Mudbl – Muggle-reminiscent?"

"Nice save," said Hermione dryly. "And, no, actually – odd how this works out – she actually heard that you asked me to the dance, and thought that I made it up."

Suddenly, there was tension in the air. Riddle placed his book next to him and stretched his legs out, resting his dark head lazily on the bench above him and looking up into the air. "Do tell." "According to Albus, 'everyone knows' about it now," Hermione huffed. "I don't see why it matters."

_Poor choice of words, there, Hermione._ "Oh, really?" he said, and there was a strangely resentful edge to his voice. "So your rejecting me doesn't _matter_, even though for all you know I could have been agonizing over it and planning it in intricate detail?"

"It didn't _seem_ intricately detailed," Hermione said defensively. "You know what I mean, Riddle – it's a dance. It's frivolous. I wouldn't think you'd care about something like that. I don't even know why you asked me in the first place."

He mumbled something that she didn't quite catch. She glanced over at him. He was staring into the blue sky, which was reflected in his dark eyes, giving them a strange clarity. "Didn't mean to offend you," Hermione continued. "I would have thought that such a social event was beneath you, actually -"

"Now, why would you think that?" he asked, closing his eyes. He looked peaceful.

"Well, such an academic as yourself doesn't usually give himself to such pursuits," Hermione said wryly.

"You mean such an academic as _your_self?"

Hermione frowned. "No. Such a one as _your_self, because for months now you've kept resolutely attempting to perfect this potion – which, by the way, you still won't tell me what it's for – and the first time I even met you, you were sitting in the library for twelve hours, and even now, when it's so near Christmas, you sit outside, alone, _reading_... what is this... 'Twilight Seduction.'"

She put the book back down, and then did a swift double take. "Wait, what?"

He scowled and sat back up. "That is _private_, Ms. Granger." He tapped the cover, and it swiftly went blank.

Hermione stared at the book. If that had been a fake cover, it had been a very embarrassing one to choose, that was for sure. There had been a picture of a pretty witch on the front cover, winking suggestively, held in the arms of some overly-muscled Fabio type. What the...

"Why on earth are you reading a romance novel?" Hermione laughed. Her eyes widened in delight as something happened that she had never seen before – Riddle's alabaster skin flushed a furious red. "Merlin, you're blushing!"

"I am not!" he said fiercely, and tucked the book inside his robe, a huge scowl erupting on his face. Hermione couldn't keep herself from letting out a sort of triumphant cackle. "Shut up," he ordered, but his face was still bright red and his eyes were boring a hole in the stands.

"It's okay," she hummed cheerfully, "every man has his secrets."

And, just like that, the blush faded away. "Yes," Riddle said, turning to look at her, completely composed once more. How did he _do_ that so easily? It was actually unsettling, the complete control he had over every part of himself. "Care to tell me yours?"

Well, _that_ was a lot more up-front than he usually was. "Uh," Hermione said uneasily, the smile running from her face like water, "no."

"Shame," he sighed, and for a second she thought he was going to curse her, so she gripped her wand handle tight, but he just stared moodily into the opposite side of the stands. Her heart fluttered in relief. "Why?" he asked suddenly, looking back at her, and Hermione could see true quizzicality in his eyes. She sighed.

"There are things that I can't tell you." She had said that line in her mind a million times, preparing for when he asked her that very question. "And there are things that hurt too much to tell anyone," she added, but she had not practiced that one, or even thought about it beforehand, and there was a true pang of pain in her heart as she said it, a true rush of memories that stung their way through her mind's eye.

"Oh."

"And you? How about the mysterious Tom Riddle? Why don't _you_ let anyone know who you are?" she asked, her heart thudding loudly, not believing her nerve. This was something that she _actually_ wanted to know, something that interested her, not just a pleasantry. She fiddled with her white wool gloves as his intense gaze scrutinized her once more.

"The same as you," he said quietly. _The same as you._ So little of an answer, there. So little to go on. _Things I can't tell you_ – well, obviously, like murdering his own father and grandparents. But _things that hurt too much to tell anyone?_ What could _those_ be? Hermione was struck with a new wave of curiosity. Even if he did just hack up a bunch of lies, she wanted to know what he would possibly admit could hurt the infallible persona of Tom Riddle. What would he not be able to think about without hurting? Could he even hurt at all?

Suddenly, Riddle let out a small, mirthless laugh. "We deserve each other," he mumbled, and the words shocked Hermione right to the core. _We deserve each other?_ No. That wasn't true. Just because she was secretive, didn't mean that –

Her mind suddenly recalled the conversation with Albus, earlier that day. _I don't know much about you, Hermione._ No one did, here. R.J. had expressed that. Mina had expressed it, too. For all most people knew, she could be torturing someone right now. For all they knew, she too had been a mass-murderer in her past life. Merlin – was this the price of secrecy, this overwhelming doubt that now filled her mind? How could she know that Mina and Godric trusted her at all; how could she know that R.J. had been able to trust her? Even Albus Dumbledore, the most trusting person she knew – that glint of doubt in his face –

Hermione looked back at Riddle. "I suppose we do," she answered softly.

xXxXxXxXx

"Listen, I just don't like him."

Hermione laughed. "Is there any sort of reason?"

Riddle didn't crack a smile; he was dead serious. "Yes, there is," he said. "He's so... closed-up. He won't let anyone know what he can really do; he just sits there and smiles."

"Oh, so, exactly like you? Except for the smiling part," Hermione said.

A dark look came across Riddle's face. Apparently, when it came to Dumbledore, he wasn't open to joviality. "I just would think it better if you were to stay away from him, that's all," he said. There. That wasn't too suspicious, and she couldn't really question his reasoning if his cover was that it was 'just a gut feeling' about Dumbledore.

The girl's face was nearly amused, a smile threatening to tug at her pink lips. What was amusing about this situation? "I'm not joking, you know," he said quietly, in his favorite _you-are-soon-to-die_ tone of voice. She stopped smiling. Good. But now indignance made its way onto her expression, that haughty indignance that was always plainly apparent in her hazel eyes.

"Look, Tom, it's none of your business who I hang around," she said.

"Yes, it is, when they despise me," Riddle countered, tossing his hair from his eyes arrogantly.

"You _don't_ know he does."

Riddle glanced over at Dumbledore. "I can guess. He's not hard to read." That was true; the open mistrust on young Dumbledore's face was always incredibly easy to see.

"Well, I like Albus. He's a nice person, and I don't see any reason why I can't be friends with him," Hermione said. "So... so... so there."

Riddle felt anger growing in his chest, but it wasn't for the girl sitting next to him. It was for that calm-faced Dumbledore, sitting and sort of watching and silently judging. What did she see in him that she needed to be around? Of course, she wouldn't know that Dumbledore had been his Transfiguration Professor and had seemed to dislike him from the very start. The old-man version of the boy had always seemed prejudiced against him, despite the fact that Riddle had been a brilliant student and had known it, too. Even now, when Dumbledore didn't even remember anything after the very earliest part of the 20th Century, he _still_ disliked Riddle, without any reason.

A murderous look swelled across Riddle's face.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Oh, come on, don't look like that. I'm sure he doesn't dislike you as much as you're convinced he does."

"No. I'm right."

"Of course you are," she sighed. "Tom Riddle is always right."

"Glad you're catching on," he replied, and he flashed a confident smirk. There was something nearly reassuring about her sarcasm, which Riddle didn't understand, and he didn't like the feeling. He should not have had to glean any sort of reassurance from anyone, ever. He was a lone pillar; everyone else was just an inconsequential floor tile.

Granger really was brilliant, though, which was an extremely attractive feature in his eyes, a feature which had the potential to raise her above the muck of the rest of humanity. The more they spoke, no matter the subject, the more he felt as if he might have found an intellectual equal, one who was not Albus Dumbledore, one who didn't hate him without reason.

Oh, wait. Yes, she hated him – too much to heal him, apparently – and this constantly-remembered fact made Riddle get a strange pang behind his ribcage, one which was not anger and was not frustration. It was something like disappointment, he had realized – disappointment that he had somehow lost someone who could have been something like a peer, could have been _useful_, and lost them without even having done something unspeakably terrible to them. Well, not _that_ unspeakably terrible. Just two Cruciatus Curses, and those hadn't even been enough to scare her away from him – because, lo and behold, here she sat, speaking with him – so they couldn't be the reason she despised him so much.

Riddle was slowly realizing that being aware of his own emotions actually lent him a sense of power, like he was achieving a new level of absolute control. He had never been able to contain anger; any of his followers could have vouched for that. And he'd repressed anything else, or passed it off as entirely unimportant. But being around the Granger girl often gave him weird and unfamiliar feelings, and as he attempted to decipher them, he found that he was actually able to calm himself more reliably, to be more... relaxed. Not that relaxation was really something to work towards, of course, because it often made people lax in decision-making, et cetera – but it did feel nice to be able to be able to occupy his ever-busy mind with things other than what this feeling and what that feeling was.

He looked at Granger, who was waving back to Dumbledore, and another heated jolt ran through his veins. Riddle wanted to stop her from associating with Dumbledore, and he wanted to do it quickly, before Dumbledore had a chance to poison her against him completely. Besides, why should Granger waste her time on such a goalless persona, a boy who was so content to sit there and do nothing? She could be doing many more productive things with her time. Or even just sitting and speaking with Tom, giving him more access to her personality.

Riddle discovered with sudden alarm that he sort of liked her personality, and he shoved the thought hurriedly to the recesses of his mind. No. If he... _liked_ someone, that meant he would be disinclined to do awful things to them, and anyone who was acquainted with him on any sort of real level had to know that awful things were just a part of being in his life. Besides, his next plan for Granger was not one to be taken lightly.

He had been almost sure that she would figure it out, when she had seen the book he had been reading. Riddle couldn't believe he had been as careless as to leave the cover in plain sight – but she had thought it was a romance novel, and just the _notion_ of Tom Riddle reading a romance novel had been so humiliating that he had found himself turning bright red, temporarily unable to suppress it for some reason. Well, humiliation was better than her discovering what the book actually was, anyway. Riddle allowed himself a quiet smirk – although he had this vague feeling he was forgetting something...

"So, what are you smirking about this time? Killed someone's pet bunny, or something?" said Hermione's voice, cutting through his thoughts.

_Killed someone's pet bunny..._ that was a good guess. Riddle felt a strange buoyancy, rising up to his throat, an entirely unfamiliar desire – and it ended up on his face as a broad smile, a smile that showed his perfect teeth, a symmetrical, electric smile that crinkled at the sides of his eyes and lifted his cheeks.

Hermione stared openly. "Was that... did you just _smile_ at one of my jokes?" she said, aghast. This couldn't be happening. It hadn't looked voluntary, either. He had _genuinely_ found something that she had said amusing. Hermione had managed to _amuse_ Tom Riddle. And that smile was... absolutely, embarrassingly _stunning_.

The smile slipped back into a smirk, and Hermione found she could breathe again. "I suppose there is a sort of quaint appeal in your rudimentary sense of humor," he said, and she laughed.

Riddle found that he had become accustomed to her laughing at his comments, and even that his comments had started to cater to her laughter. After all, making her laugh was good. It meant that she was enjoying being around him, right? And usually, people who were parts of 'friendships' enjoyed being around each other. At least, as far as he had observed in various case studies. So, in conclusion, laughter was a good signal, good for his 'befriending' motive.

He blatantly ignored the itching feeling that that was not the only reason he liked to see her laugh.

xXxXxXxXx

"Fancy running into you here," Hermione said, knocking on the door to the classroom and walking in before he had a chance to say anything.

"Did I say you could come in?" he asked with a small scowl on his lips. He was lying on a black leather sofa, playing with his wand, looking languid and dangerous.

Hermione conjured herself a bright orange chair and plopped down on it with a sigh. "Well, Tom, I supposed that the fact that I said I'd come visit you would be enough warning," she said, looking over at Riddle with a grin.

He was like an elastic band. She had carefully, carefully stretched him to his limit with her sarcasm and familiarity, and then kept stretching that limit, bit by bit – and now that he was all stretched out, she could speak to him as if he were a regular acquaintance. No – as if he were a friend. Hermione felt a vague sense of victory, which was odd. She shouldn't have felt like she succeeded by _befriending_ Lord Voldemort. But then – he wasn't really Lord Voldemort yet, was he? Perhaps, in real life, if there had been someone who was willing to withstand everything about him to become _familiar_ with him... perhaps he might have turned out differently?

He hadn't even done anything distinctly rotten in... how long? Well, she couldn't remember anything particularly vile since the maze incident, assuming that the rumors hadn't been a plot of his – but those were hardly even annoying, let alone evil. The feeling of victory was swelling by the second, and she looked over at Riddle with a smile. Handling him was a great intellectual task, but Hermione finally felt like she was _used_ to it – and now, _now_, she could get to the good stuff. The psychological scarring and whatnot, if there was any. The _motivations. _The _reasons._ She ached to know. She _burned_ to know about him.

He fascinated her in a way that no one ever had before, and she was on the road to being satisfied, to scratching that itch _at last!_

And she wasn't sure when he had changed, turned from _Riddle_ into _Tom_... but it had happened, and he no longer objected.

Hermione let out a contented sigh. "Tom," she mumbled.

"Yes?" said his curt voice.

"Your fire is out," she commented. "Should I start it again?"

He gave a snarky chuckle. "Yes, because that would be incredibly useful, given the contents of the cauldron, Granger."

She sat bolt upright. She hadn't even _thought_ to check on the potion as she walked in – she had been just a bit distracted by the way he looked that day, which was embarrassing, but very true. She stared into the cauldron. It was empty. Empty. Finally, on the twelfth of December, he had finished it.

"So... you succeeded?" Hermione said. The potion had sort of started to become a given, a project that would never get finished. After all, Riddle had told her that he had once spent a year and a half researching properties of a certain potion just to make it operate on a different time frame – it wasn't implausible that this could be something similar. "It's done?"

"Yes, Ms. Granger," he sighed, and a tight-lipped smile managed to make itself known on his face. "My potion is finally finished."

"So, where is it?"

"Safely bottled and stored," he chuckled, "far from where you could get access to it."

Hermione let out a low whistle. "Well, good job!" she finally said, and his eyes slowly opened, wandering over to her. He blinked and frowned a little.

"What?" said Riddle.

"Good job," Hermione repeated.

"Oh..."

She messed with her hair, scrutinizing his expression. She had come to know very subtle changes in the way he held his mask that were key to understanding what he was thinking. "Why are you confused? I just said good job," she said. The left side of his mouth had just the tiniest hint of a crease at its corner. That meant he was thinking harder than usual, which was a feat in itself, and which usually meant confusion.

"I..."

His mask unraveled, revealing the plain puzzlement behind it. "What?" Hermione asked.

He paused, and then surveyed a long index finger lazily. "I don't know why I feel inclined to tell you this, Granger, but no one – besides my sickeningly easily-impressed teachers, I suppose – has ever told me that I've done a 'good job'."

Hermione frowned. "But you're brilliant."

"I know," he replied flatly, and he rested his arms above his head on the sofa, observing Hermione with a calm eye.

"Well, aren't _we_ modest," commented Hermione, with a bit of a smirk. Riddle's face didn't show any emotion at all. He just blinked calmly and his eyes traveled over Hermione's expression.

"That's one way to put it, I suppose," he answered.

"And another way to put it?"

"If I had to summarize in a word, I'd choose 'unappreciated'," he mumbled, his eyes flicking up to stare at the ceiling.

Hermione raised her eyebrows. Was this actually getting somewhere? Were they actually going to talk about Riddle's... feelings? She swallowed.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly.

No sooner was the word out of her mouth than a hideous snarl was on his face, and he was sitting bolt upright, his feet on the floor and his wand out.

"Don't you _ever_ say you're sorry to me," he hissed. Hermione's wand was out too – her reflexes were still fully in action – and she was suddenly a nervous wreck, her heart going _bang bang bang_ hard and recklessly and hopelessly. _Oh my God – _She hadn't heard his voice like that, hadn't seen this side of him since that first time he had cast _Crucio_ on her. Just for a simple apology? Merlin, what was _wrong_ with him? That animal rage in his eyes was positively terrifying—

"Why?" she found herself asking, her voice tiny and timid, and she could nearly see him absorbing the word, and his face changed like she had never seen it change before.

His hand opened slightly, seemingly of its own volition, and Hermione was incredibly alarmed to see his wand drop from his hand carelessly into his lap. Then his handsome features contorted until he looked positively agonized. His mouth opened slightly, a tiny black aperture between his full lips, his eyes filled to the brim with revelatory pain. Hermione stared at him, horrified by this new spectrum of emotion on his face. Was this why he had perfected a display that would conceal every feeling he ever had? Was this what he was hiding, all the time? His mouth opened a little more, and he let out an "I -"

His voice cracked embarrassingly, but for once he did not compose himself. He just swallowed and looked down at his wand, the hurt still in his stare, as if he were thinking _why, why, why_ as he looked at that thin stick of yew.

His fingers quietly placed his wand on the sofa cushion next to him, and he looked back up at Hermione, that raw gaze _tearing_ at her.

She felt like she was going to cry.

Weeks of nothing, and now this? This stricken transparency? Right then he looked like the single most miserable and – and, dare she think it – _vulnerable_ person she had ever seen, and that included Harry at the height of his desolation and anguish, and that included Ron at the height of his fear and worry, and that included when she looked into the mirror and saw herself late at night, saw her own image haunted by constant nightmares of figures that would never die.

Still the expression did not drain. He didn't look like he could do anything to stop it, but his eyes were locked with hers as firmly as if their two gazes had been connected by steel threads, a silent, desperate, _tortured_ plea in his eyes for something she didn't think she could ever, ever know or understand.

Hermione's heart raced. Merlin, this torrential silence. "Riddle, I -" The words whispered forth unbidden from her lips. She sounded like she was about to burst into tears, her throat choked with entirely unreasonable emotion. "Riddle, say something," she said frantically, taking in a deep breath through her nose.

It was as if he had realized he had gone too deep, and could not go back. Now he glanced from side to side, and there was nearly a tremble at the side of his mouth, and then his eyes snapped back to hers. More speech she could not suppress. He looked afraid. He looked terrified, like a little _child_. He looked like everything she had _never_ seen him display.

She whispered, "Tom."

"Tom."

He bowed his head forward in seeming agony. "Leave," he said, and his voice was strained and whispery.

She toppled forward to her knees in a desperate attempt to see his downturned face, one hand outstretched in a silent gesture of _I'm-here-for-you-I-care-talk-to-me_ but he clawed it away with a visibly shaking hand. "Get_ the hell out!_" he said through gritted teeth, his voice strangled now. In those words was a cry threatening to break from his chest, that scream she had heard him scream when he had cursed himself, the cry of the defeated. And the wretched.

Hermione staggered to her feet, feeling like she couldn't blink, her eyes were so wide and staring, and before she knew it she had lightly placed a comforting hand on his left shoulder, letting it rest there for just a second before she strode from the room, the door a quiet _click_ behind her.

She stopped outside, walked a little way down the hall, then placed her hands on the stone wall, clenching her eyes shut, trying to get the image out of her head of that expression– but the more she tried to suppress it, the brighter it burned onto the backs of her eyelids, unforgettable, irrepressible, unbelievable, as concrete and as real as the rock digging into her hand right now. _Tom Riddle!_ How could one face show that much misery? That much hurt? That much _everything_? Hermione let out a barely-restrained noise of frustration for him, for his pain, for he who never let himself be himself.

She didn't know him at all. This boy, this man, who thought she knew so much about him – she knew _nothing. _Nothing at all. Nothing that mattered, anyway – nothing that mattered to her anymore. Not after that.

Riddle tried to bite back hot tears, but he found that he couldn't keep them from spilling over, so he just opened his eyes and let the floodgates wide.

_Memories._

Racked helplessly with angry sobs, practically snarls, he dug his hands into his dark hair, pulling hard until that perfect sweep of darkest brown was tousled and chaotic, and he snatched up his wand with a hand and cast a Silencer on the room and he blew up a desk, blew up a chair, with a _bang _and a _bang_ and an enraged beam of sparks sliced through the rest in a melting heat.

_Memories._

Riddle lurched to his feet, his eyes red, his mouth wide in harsh gaping breaths sucked in one by one, not even attempting to calm himself. He demolished the desks with more fast-paced, terribly-cast spells, wand tearing through the air in wide, sloppy sweeps, and then he conjured a bookshelf filled with blank books just so that he could destroy every bit of everything with his bare hands.

_Memories._

And when every plank of that bookshelf was splintered, and every book's silent page lay rent from its spine? Then, then, then it was over.

Riddle slowly walked back to the sofa, sitting down like a feeble old man, his nails torn and bloody, his hands roughly scratched and ripped, and he gently repaired them with his wand, tenderly, like he was healing a sick child, and he moved his wand over his face, and everything that might have betrayed the fact that he had just been sobbing like the dying with tears and mucus all over his face – it all vanished.

All that was left was a sort of redness to his eyes, but he closed them in tiredness anyway, and after a few minutes, he thought, upon inspection of his reflection, that those looked okay again too. Innocent language – innocent words. Okay, again, too. Okay, like just standing up after a bit of a fall. Again, like he had ever been standing in the first place. Too, like he was not alone. Too, like he could ever expect anybody to be able to help him back on his way.

And Tom Riddle slowly brushed his hair back into place, and it was then that he felt something on his shoulder, like a rash, like an injury – where her hand had ever-so-lightly laid itself, her delicate hand, her hand –

Riddle's mouth slowly opened a little, but he was too tired to think. He just curled himself up into as small of a ball as he could, and his fingers feverishly clutched at that spot on his shoulder. For some reason, he wasn't embarrassed to admit to himself that he was feeling a servile gratitude towards that place on his shoulder, the only place on his body that didn't feel deprecated in a rush of _memory, memory, memory – _the only part of him that felt like it could ever possibly feel _okay again too_.

This deadening feeling of self-loathing would pass, though.

It always ended up passing.

Tom Riddle always came out on top.

So with that knowledge in his pocket, Riddle clutched at the sofa arm beneath him and broke down again. And again, and again, until he scarcely believed he was still real.


	14. Chapter 14

**You all are stellar human beings:**

** ScarlettxTristan, Senko Ryu, Allychick1, Anna on the Horizon, Jade Ember, bluberrimuffins, nicole317, xXBlueDazeXx, Smithback, AudioIrrelevance, Goooooooood (sorry bud, not going to count the o's XD), loupyloupowell, Risottonocheese, lorix, ChildoftheLight, KeitarosKeroNeko, Libby, Merih, Taylah, f4vivian, ClaireReno, Atilia Dawn Black, WhiteTigerXOXO, AphroditeCalling, MissPixie, Kenya Darcey, RubyKally, BooklvrAnnie, JC1988, slytherintriumvirate, licious461, madluv, Magtaria, magentasouth, VampireLoverForever27, A. Ymous, Kalidescope, bingbing196, sexy-jess, MissImpossible, deator11, psalmofsummer, Lady Hoffman, physics chick, tiki500, kromoon23, MissMusa, Vinwin, Kitsune, aaaaand... ilikebluepineapples.**

* * *

Mina and Godric ducked back around the end of the corridor. Hermione had just burst out of that classroom, Riddle's classroom, and started sobbing up against the wall – what had Riddle _done_ to her?

The girl just wouldn't take their advice against Riddle, no matter how hard they tried. But this... this had to stop. Mina exchanged a glance with Godric and then snuck another look at Hermione, who had slid down the wall and was now huddled in a ball, racked with shaking sobs. "What should we do?" whispered Godric.

Mina blew her black hair out of her eyes. "I'm going to talk to Riddle. Tomorrow. He's just _bad_ for her, and that's all there is to it."

A foul humor overcoming her, Mina grabbed Godric's hand and led him back to the common room, leaving Hermione there alone.

xXxXxXxXx

Hermione sat there and cried herself dry. Why did it hurt so much, the realization that she couldn't understand that look in his eyes? Why was she still sitting there, resolutely crying her way through the night, as if waiting for him to emerge from that classroom? _Why should she care?_

She sniffed and cleaned her face with her wand. There was absolute silence from the classroom, and he hadn't left yet. Hermione slowly stood, her back aching after having been pressed against the stone wall for what must have been hours, and she went back to Gryffindor House.

She woke up late. Very late. No one was in the dormitory anymore.

Hermione slowly made her way down to the Great Hall. None of her friends were sitting at the Gryffindor table. Her eyes wandered over to the Slytherin table – Tom Riddle and Abraxas were noticeably absent, too.

She frowned and walked outside, squinting from the glare of the snow. She reached for her wand, to cast the standard Impervius on her shoes, but she annoyed to find that it wasn't in her pocket. She must have left it under her pillow. That was irritating; she would have to go all the way back to the dormitory.

Hermione turned right; a nearby passage through a tall turret led to Gryffindor far faster. But as she approached the turret, she frowned. Was that a _person_, standing on top of the _roof_? Hermione's heart beat faster as she squinted up at the figure. She could dimly make out a red lining on their robe – Gryffindor. Who was it? They were standing _far_ too near the edge, in any case.

"Hello?" Hermione called tentatively. The figure's face turned downwards to her, its hair flapping in the wind. Short, brown hair.

"Hermione!" said a dim echo of a voice, vague pleasure in it.

Hermione's breath caught. "Miranda? Why are you up there?"

"Just testing something out," called Miranda, and just like that, without any sort of warning, she rocked back on her heels and leapt out into the air. The drop must have been seventy or eighty feet.

Hermione screamed until her voice cracked. She frantically tried a wandless spell, but nothing happened. Miranda's thin body toppled through the air, wind tearing at her robes and hair, and Hermione froze to the spot, helplessly watching for what seemed like a year. She almost believed that, just before Miranda landed, there would be some sort of salvation, some sort of force field that would keep her from colliding with the hard-packed snow. But there was not.

Her friend landed face-down with the worst noise Hermione had ever heard, a crunching nauseating _thud._

"Oh my God." Hermione broke into a sprint.

She knelt over Miranda. The girl's limbs were twisted out at a terrible, flailing angle. _Oh my dear sweet God. _Hermione turned Miranda over. She wasn't moving. She wasn't breathing. Her face was sickeningly crumpled inwards by the impact, and there was crimson _everywhere, _leaking from every orifice, coming out of random holes in her skin. Hermione let out a small noise, her head spinning, looking around with desperation in her eyes, and then she retched, again and again, sucking in breaths, desperately attempting to calm herself. What was there to do? What could she do?

She clenched her eyes shut, wishing she'd wake up, wishing this would all be a terrible nightmare, and she hugged Miranda to her, her head on Miranda's chest, disregarding the wet feel of blood on her cheek – but she stopped.

On Earth, that would have been an entirely fatal fall. That should have been an entirely fatal fall anywhere.

So why was Miranda's heart beating?

Hermione's eyes opened in astonishment as she looked down at her friend. There was blood all over her, and she didn't look alive, but that sluggish _thud_ in her chest said otherwise.

Hermione looked up as something moved in her peripherals.

Slowly coming around the side of the castle was Tom Riddle. Hermione closed her eyes. After last night – why did he look so normal? But that didn't matter – nothing mattered except that Miranda was somehow _still alive_.

She found herself yelling, "Tom!" Her arms flailed wildly, and he walked to her with agonizing hesitancy. "Help me." Miranda was a couple inches taller than her, and Hermione wasn't exactly strong, but Miranda had to get to the Infirmary, and _fast_, and Hermione _didn't have her wand_ –

A look of horror came across Riddle's face. "What -"

"She jumped off of that tower! Look, there's no time – carry her! I don't have my wand, and we have to get to the Infirmary, _now_." Hermione lifted Miranda's broken body with a mighty heave. She staggered, and Riddle's arms were suddenly around her friend.

They ran as fast as they could to the Infirmary, Hermione holding Miranda's head so it wouldn't bounce. How was her being alive physically possible? Her neck was _sideways._ She had a _broken neck._

"Merlin!" yelped Jared Pippin as Hermione and Riddle rushed through the door, laying Miranda on the nearest bed. They had left a trail of blood spattered behind them on the floor, and every student they had passed in the halls had just stopped, and _stared_.

"Jared, she's still alive," Hermione said. "She jumped off a tower and she survived."

Mungo walked into the room and his face froze. "Dear God," he said, and then his wand was out and wandering all over Miranda's body. He slowly stretched out her limbs, and it was even more painfully obvious now how many of her bones were completely _wrong_, hanging at limp, dead angles, and both her shoulders were out of alignment, and there were random holes in the front of her body, like her blood had wanted to keep falling after she had hit the ground and it had just burst out – and her back was collapsed and concave, like a dented tin can—

It took nearly two hours for Mungo to find, and gingerly heal, all the breaks in Miranda's body. Every rib except two had smashed. Both arms, one in seven places and the other in five. Both legs, one in four places and the other in six. Her entire skull had crumbled inwards, which had taken Mungo rummaging around in his black book of spells to repair. Both her shoulders had popped out of their sockets, and one hip, too. Mungo had been cautious with her neck – he said that, despite the break of the bone, there was no damage to her spinal cord. He also said it was lucky she had fallen into snow and not hit stone, or her brain might not still be in decent form, which he said it somehow was.

"In fact," he said, "I don't know how her brain is still intact. Or her heart, for that matter. They both seem to be nearly perfectly in shape, although the brain stem here -" he tapped Miranda's neck with his wand – "was a little unsteady because of the break… but really, her brain should have been really damaged by that skull breakage –"

Hermione watched as her friend slowly regained her usual appearance. _Why, Miranda?_

Mungo frowned a little as he waved his wand over Miranda's body. "This is really strange," he said. "She's fully oxygenated. Her whole body. Even though most of her blood vessels have ruptured – it's like air is seeping in through her skin and circulating itself, or something."

Hermione was more than a little unnerved.

"That aside, though – everything in her body needs to repair. She won't be awake for at least another month," sighed Mungo. "Nervous system first, probably, which will take about a week, and then I'll start work on her lungs just as soon as Pippin's got that blood-clearing stuff – Jared? Can you find the instructions?"

Riddle had left quietly after it was apparent that Mungo had the situation relatively under control. There had been a pensive look on his face, and he had caught Hermione's eyes before walking out.

Hermione gazed at Miranda's face. She looked peaceful, calm, pristine. She had always been a little strange... but suicide? She had said she was _happy_ to be here. Why would she want to risk moving on?

It was like a sudden jolt. By all rights, Miranda should have been stone cold _dead_. But that didn't happen... because it _couldn't_ happen here, for whatever reason.

Here, no one could die.

Godric, Mina, and Albus joined her in the Infirmary an hour later, the former two looking absolutely stunned, Albus looking gently unsurprised.

"She asked me yesterday," Dumbledore said, "if I thought we could actually pass in this place." There was a long pause. Hermione turned and looked at Dumbledore. "I said no," he said quietly.

Godric let out a long breath. "I can't believe she's going to be all right," he muttered. "I can't believe she would even try a stupid stunt like that in the first place." _Just testing something out..._

Mina shook her head in disbelief and stayed silent, brushing Miranda's hair back from her forehead tenderly.

Hermione looked down at her knees, fighting back tears. The others hadn't seen her crying during Mungo's healing, and they didn't need to see her cry now.

Godric glanced at Hermione and then looked at Mina. Even through the absolute shock of Miranda's actions, he could tell that they couldn't stop from asking themselves, that they were thinking the same thing. If Hermione could keep herself from crying after this... then what in the bloody _hell_ had Riddle done last night?

xXxXxXxXx

Riddle exited the Slytherin common room, his mind still unsteady in disbelief. The fact that the girl was alive meant, surely, that no one could die. What would happen if he tried to cast Avada Kedavra? No death... Then again, they weren't really alive to die...

Riddle's stomach ached in hunger. He hadn't bothered to go to breakfast, instead choosing to sit on the Astronomy Tower and think, so now he headed to the Great Hall for some food.

The pure shock of the girl's suicide attempt had worn off. Riddle analyzed the subsequent results. This would likely get Dumbledore out of his hair, which seemed like an extraordinary stroke of luck. Actually, this provided the perfect avenue for his plan for Granger – incredibly optimal. Tonight seemed like the time, the time everything would finally come together.

Riddle turned to the left. The dungeons wound around and around, which always proved mildly irritating – and now there were two Gryffindors standing in front of him, seemingly as right as rain, though one of their best friends was lying broken in the Hospital Wing.

"Hello," Riddle said, nodding his head civilly to Godric and Mina. They didn't move. The confrontational looks on their faces made Riddle want to roll his eyes. Honestly, he didn't have time for Gryffindor foolishness.

Godric shook his head, his red hair moving out of his eyes. "Listen, Riddle," Godric said cautiously, "I've wanted to speak with you about this for a while."

"We both have," interrupted Mina.

Riddle raised his eyebrows, looking politely interested. He sealed his face into its mask and waited for them to clarify.

"In essence," Mina said, "We'd like you to get the hell away from Hermione Granger."

Well, that was a bit aggressive. Riddle blinked, a little surprised by her fervor. But then, of course – this girl had been the one in the maze. He restrained a smirk with great difficulty. Of course, she'd be humiliated to be in his mere presence. "Why?" he asked, allowing a look of slight confusion to appear on his face. "I apologize; I don't understand."

"Look," said Mina fiercely, "it's been apparent for a while now that being around you really... it really messes with her, and we'd like for it to stop."

Riddle frowned. "Messes with her? She seems perfectly fine when I'm with her," he said. It was almost funny, how angry this girl was getting so quickly. No, she wouldn't last five minutes attempting to hold a conversation with him. No brains. No ability to plan. Just like a Gryffindor. Well, most Gryffindors.

"Perfectly fine?" snorted Godric. "You mean, like last night?"

Then there was a stiff silence in the air. Riddle looked straight into Godric's face, and his strong green eyes held the stare admirably. So... Granger had told them about what had happened? She was closer to them than he had thought. She couldn't keep reporting back to them; it was most unsatisfactory. Of course, there was just a slim chance that... "What do you mean?"

"Well, I mean, after we saw her bursting out of that room and proceeding to sob her eyes out, it sort of became apparent that she wasn't 'perfectly happy'," shot back Mina.

Riddle inwardly sighed with relief. So she hadn't talked to them about him. But then he nearly frowned, just barely catching himself... why would she be crying? So he had fully let down his guard for the first time... well, the first time ever, and he had told her to leave... why would that make her _cry_? "I'm sorry," he said, "I don't understand. When she left, she seemed fine. I didn't think I did anything to make her cry. Is... is she alright?" And now, just a touch of concern. Perfect. The fabricated concern came strangely easily, for some reason.

"She seems fine, now," muttered Godric, exchanging a glance with Mina. This was _not_ how it was supposed to be going. Riddle seemed perfectly convinced of his innocence.

"That's good," Riddle replied earnestly, his eyes flickering over to the Mina girl. She looked brim-full of absolute rage.

"Look, just stop," Mina said, walking towards him. "I know you're not the harmless person you always pretend to be. Just stay away from Hermione, yeah?"

He raised one eyebrow. "So I should lose one of my best friends just because you _ask _me to?" Hmm. Maybe 'best friends' was laying it on a bit thick, though he supposed she was the closest thing he had to an actual 'friend', so it wasn't exactly a lie.

"Yes!" spat Mina. Her grey eyes were stormy. Godric walked up and put a hand on her shoulder steadily. Riddle let himself look a bit alarmed by her rage. He was tiring of the game – these people provided absolutely no intellectual challenge at all; it wasn't fun to deceive them. They were persistent, though, which just made it irritating. Yes, his patience was slowly weathering down.

Both these people already knew that he was deceptive, due to the maze incident. Wouldn't it just be easier to hex them and get it over with? That stupid Gryffindor pride would probably stop them from letting anyone know about it, if it were two on one and he bested them both, which, of course, he would. Plus, who would believe that Tom Riddle would curse someone if it weren't for a good reason? Surely, no one. "Look," Riddle said exasperatedly, "I really don't understand why I should do what you're asking. It was through no fault of mine that she was miserable last night; I don't see why I should apologize for it, and especially not just withdraw -"

"We know you cursed yourself," said Godric quietly. "We know it was you."

Oh, right. _That_. Back in the maze, that Mina girl had let on an inkling of knowing about that. Well, that made this either quite a bit harder or quite a bit easier. "Not to mention the maze," Mina added with a particularly venomous glare.

Then a smirk slowly made its way onto Riddle's face. "Ah, yes. Good days."

Godric was a bit disturbed. This information should have worried Riddle, but he was smirking, looking even more dangerously confident than ever. What was wrong with the boy?

"Unfortunately, that doesn't make me want to leave Hermione alone," Riddle sighed, "because she's just too... interesting." Mina's scowl darkened further. "Also, I'd like to point out that Ms. Granger herself also knows about those incidents, and hasn't seen fit to abandon my friendship, so I would wonder why you're here intervening on her behalf," he continued smoothly, scanning the Gryffindors with an idle pleasure. This was even easier than flustering Granger. Not quite as fun, though, and he really was hungry, so it would be nice just to get out of there. "So, thank you for the sentiment, but I'm afraid -"

"We're not joking around about this, Riddle," said Godric sharply. "You leave her alone, or there'll be hell to pay."

Time to draw out the fangs. "Why would I want to leave her alone, though?" Riddle said with a wicked smirk, his eyes darkening. "When she's so..." he trailed off and let his gaze wander over to Mina. "Delicious?"

He could practically see the girl's mind jumping back to that day in the maze, and a furious snarl erupted on her face. "That's it," she said, and drew her wand.

"You really don't want to do that," Riddle said.

Mina hadn't even seen him draw his wand, but there it was, in his hand, though she could've sworn it wasn't there a second ago... Oh, well. Godric Gryffindor was standing next to her. Mina reassured herself that matter how good Riddle was at dueling, there was no way he could beat Godric. She hadn't ever seen him lose a duel, not to anyone, though admittedly he'd never dueled Albus, who was pretty fantastic.

Her anger was bubbling over. She wanted to curse that smirk off Riddle's smug face. What was his problem, anyway? It was like he was obsessed. A creepy, sick obsession. Mina remembered that hot breath on her neck, that sweet smell, the feel of him pressed up against her – and her stomach lurched. She swallowed. Her wand wavered a bit as she held it out.

"You two really are beginning to bore me," Riddle mused aloud, and that was the last straw for Mina. She gritted her teeth and a red jet of light spat from the end of her wand – a Stupefy. Godric shot her an alarmed look, but come on; there were two of them and one of him, and it was _Godric._ Riddle didn't even seem to move his wand – he just _looked_ at the red light and it curled in on itself and folded into nothingness. Mina's mouth dried up. What the hell was _that_?

Then he lazily fired spells at both of them with casual flicks of his wand. They were both relatively harmless jinxes, and Godric and Mina deflected them easily. Then Riddle waited. What looked like a black vortex hummed towards him from Godric just as Mina conjured an angry-looking falcon, which swooped down towards Riddle. Now he waved his wand, and the black vortex turned on its side, shredding the feathers off the falcon before swallowing it completely. Riddle flicked his wand and the black swirl vanished.

Godric and Mina started sending spells in earnest now, but the relaxed look never vanished from Riddle's face, and every single spell missed, vanished, collided harmlessly with the wall. Godric started pulling some interesting things out of his arsenal, conjuring complex restraints, changing air into fire, all while firing jinx after jinx – although he didn't really want to _hurt_ Riddle, so he wasn't going full-force. Surely, after all, if he dueled with all he had, Riddle wouldn't have had a chance... Although the boy really was unnervingly relaxed...

Mina's brow was furrowed in concentration, but Riddle's wand danced lightly through the air, discarding every single attempt, and he hadn't even taken a _step_ yet.

Riddle sighed. This was the problem with Light magic – after a while, it all got so boring and predictable. He was done. This fight was over.

They'd stopped firing spells at him, and seemed to be waiting for him to do something, which was a terrible idea, Riddle mused with a small smirk. He slowly shifted his weight into a dueling stance, and was glad to see levels of fear on the faces in front of him. A small swirl of his wand, and a violent magenta rocket of light blasted towards Godric.

Mina took a step back in terror. She could smell the hot burn of the powerful spell, and even Godric looked alarmed. He wove his wand in a pattern, frowning, and a steel webwork slowly appeared in front of him, managing to displace Riddle's spell – but before Godric had even finished making the shield, Riddle's other spell had blasted into Mina's chest.

"Mina!" roared Godric, and dropped down by her as if it had been he who had gotten hit.

Riddle tucked his wand away with a sigh and walked away. He hadn't done anything too bad to the girl – just a mild electric shock, coupled with a bit of an unpleasant buzzing in the ears which lasted for a day or two. After all his wasted time, Riddle thought, they should be _grateful_ that that was all he had done.

He hoped they wouldn't tell Granger about it. That wasn't likely, though, if they'd gone behind her back to corner him in the dungeon.

His mind flickered back to what those two had let slip – her crying the night before. He frowned as he sat down at the Slytherin table, next to Revelend Godelot. Granger had cried over him?

Riddle hadn't ever really thought about her in that context, like a person who could feel bad because of him, who could be emotionally affected by him. She was strong; that was one of the main reasons she interested him. The only time he had seen her cry was after losing her friend, and that had hardly been hysterical sobbing. Oh, and out of pain during the Cruciatus. Why would she feel bad enough to cry after last night?

He thought back. Everything had come rushing back, as it always did, in a torrent of pure hurt, this time triggered by her asking him _why_ she should not tell him she was sorry. He shouldn't have let that innocent question get to him, but it had set something off that he couldn't control, turning him into an utter wreck. Riddle's face hardened. She had looked at him as if she had seen the Bloody Baron. And then that soft word – "Tom."

She had asked him about himself, and he had ordered her to leave. She had held out her hand to him, and he had slapped her away. She had placed a gentle hand on his shoulder... and he had done nothing.

Could she have been upset... because _he_ had been upset? The idea was so utterly foreign to Riddle that his face threatened to screw up into utter bafflement. It seemed like the type of thing Granger would be predisposed to do, though – get sad _on behalf_ of someone, like that was rational. Was that something _friends_ did, get sad for each other, like they couldn't do it perfectly well themselves?

He had stared into her eyes as anchors to the world – the fact that she had been sitting there in silence was the only reason he hadn't immediately had his fit. But then, that quietly spoken name – it had been too much. Far too much.

In her eyes – it hadn't been pity. No; pity would have enraged him. It was something close, though... something near. Something stupid. The word flooded his mind – compassion.

Someone didn't just randomly feel compassion, though. They had to _care_ to feel compassion, which was why Riddle himself never –

They had to care.

Riddle's face drew in sudden surprise, and he stood up unsteadily, having finished his silent midday meal –

His mind trailed the sequence of events again, and again, but he was still disbelieving. How could she care about him? How could she care for him? No one had ever given a thought to genuinely caring for him – at least, not after they knew who he was. The notion was alien, foreign. Riddle did not care about anyone, so no one ever cared about him.

He found himself asking himself the question, though:

Did he care about her?

Well, he didn't even know where to start. That uncomfortable twinge he got when he thought about having made her cry, the way he sometimes caught himself thinking back on their conversations with a sort of happy satisfaction, the strange way he had adjusted to be around her, the pleasant feeling in him when they were both relaxing and speaking as equals – did that all amount to _caring_? Two people who cared about each other – did that mean that they had an actual, valid friendship?

Surely not. Surely there was something to be said for the fact that he'd done this only to execute a plan. That made it disingenuous, right? It couldn't be real, because legitimately _caring_ was risky. Caring was weak, and stupid. All it meant was that you let someone get close enough to wound.

But she cared about him.

Riddle blinked and bit his lip. This was good. This was what he had been aiming for, right?

So why did he feel so utterly unseated now that it had happened?

xXxXxXxXx

Hermione ate dinner in silence. Godric and Mina were acting really strange, and she presumed it was about Miranda, so she didn't ask them to elaborate. Every so often, Mina would shake her head a little, as if trying to clear her mind. Of course, Mina would be trying to suppress her sadness.

Hermione finished her dinner. For the past week or two, she had been going to visit Riddle after dinner, but... that didn't really seem like an option, in this instance. Maybe she would just stay away tonight, give him space before she tried to pry into his life again.

She really wasn't any better than he was, Hermione thought glumly. They both wanted information, just had different ways of attempting to get it – although last night's development had been entirely unanticipated...

She trailed out of the Great Hall early, fleeing the uncomfortable silence with one glance back. She was a bit unnerved to find that all three of her friends were just watching her leave, with expressions she didn't recognize. Were they alright?

She made a right, and then stepped behind a tapestry, the way that she took to get to the common room these days so she wouldn't have to walk past the entrance to the dungeons. Then she tripped on something and fell, only to have a strong hand catch her upper arm, keeping her upright.

"Oh. Uh," she said lamely. It was Riddle.

"Sorry to trip you," he replied, letting go of her arm. "I was waiting for you."

Hermione frowned. "Why?"

Riddle sighed. "Look, Granger, I -"

"It's Hermione," she interrupted, without knowing why.

"What?"

"My name is Hermione," she said. "I don't think you've ever used it. I know you don't like your first name, but I like mine, alright?"

He nodded slowly. It was dark behind the tapestry, but the look on his face was clearer than usual. "I was going to say I'm sorry for last night," he said quietly. "I was rude."

"You're... sorry?" said Hermione, the words unfamiliar in context with the boy opposite her.

"Yes. I acted poorly," Riddle said stiffly. He felt uncomfortable, and he couldn't seem to make himself meet her eyes. She looked completely surprised, but didn't look unhappy. This apology thing was working out well, but then, as usual, she tossed a wrench in his plan for how this was supposed to proceed.

"You don't have to be sorry for being sad," she said quietly, and he stared at her like she was from another planet. Was this what it was like, when someone cared about you? This talk about _feelings_ and that soft, gentle tone in her voice, a strangely nice tone to listen to...?

"But I am," he replied softly. "I... it was not my intention to hurt you."

She still didn't smile. He couldn't remember getting this far into a conversation with her in the past week and a half in which she hadn't smiled by this point. She looked conflicted. And there was a note of pain in her eyes, he saw with... with almost a pang in his own chest. Why should he care if she was sad, or in pain? He suddenly felt uneasy. "Walk with me?" he asked quietly. Time to get started.

Hermione nodded and walked by him in silence. She was surprised when they did not head towards the usual classroom. Then again, he was done with the potion, so that room had probably outlived its usefulness.

They stopped on the seventh floor, a few hallways away from the Room of Requirement. Riddle stopped in front of an oaken door. "Ernest Hemingway," he said. The door clicked quietly.

Hermione frowned. "Where are we?" He opened the door. "Why is the password Ernest Hemingway?"

"My room. The Head Boy and Head Girl rooms. I would have thought you'd know."

Hermione shrugged. "No, I've never been."

"You weren't Head Girl? That's a surprise," Riddle said. He held the door open for Hermione, and she walked in. "As for why the password is a Muggle author, I'm mystified," he said drily. _And offended._

Hermione entered. It was a small hallway, one door on the right and one on the left.

"That one's for the Head Girl," he said, "and this one's for Head Boy."

Two letters were carved into the dark wood of the door on the left. HB.

_Humongous Bighead._

Hermione suddenly felt laughter swelling in her at the thought, as Riddle tapped the doorknob on the Head Boy door with his wand. It clicked.

"What spell was that?" she asked. "Just Alohomora?"

Riddle shook his head. "No, it's a special password, so the Head Girl and Head Boy can't just get into each others' rooms. Mine's my birthday."

"When's your birthday?" Hermione asked, though she knew it was the last day of the year.

He frowned. "I suppose I shouldn't really care about you attempting to break into my room for any reason, should I?"

"No, you shouldn't."

Riddle sighed. "December thirty-first, if you must know." Then he opened the door, and the pair walked into the room.

It was irrationally spacious inside, seeing as it only should have had enough space to be half the size of a regular classroom. But it had a high, arched ceiling, a marble fireplace, and wood floors. The bed hangings were deepest green, and in front of the lit fireplace sat a black leather sofa. A cherry wood desk was on one side of the room, filled with impeccably stacked papers. The entire room was freakishly neat.

"Are you uncomfortable in here?" Riddle said. "We can leave. I just wanted to get the Butterbeers." Two bottles of Butterbeer sat on the mantle.

"No, it's fine," said Hermione. "I'm not like you old-fashioned people from the 1940s." A small smirk appeared on Riddle's face.

Hermione sighed. The warmly-lit room really was very welcoming, more welcoming than the Gryffindor common room had felt in a long time.

Riddle flicked his wand and the Butterbeers flew into his hands. He offered her one.

"Why the celebration?"

"Not a celebration. I just thought you might like one after the events of today," sighed Riddle, sitting on one end of the sofa. She perched herself at the other end. "How is your friend, by the way?"

Hermione popped the cap on the Butterbeer with a poke of her wand. "Not good. Mungo says she won't be awake for a month, and even then she'll have to take lots of potions." She gestured with her Butterbeer. Riddle was looking intently at her. "Apparently her trachea shattered, and there are holes in both her lungs. He'll have to heal all her internal organs. That's before she can even wake up."

Riddle shook his head slowly. "How is she still alive? I was wondering... that fall seemed like it should have, well, killed her."

"Yeah," agreed Hermione quietly. "I don't... well, I don't..."

"...think people can die here?" Riddle finished, nodding slowly. He was looking into the fire. "I was thinking the same. It's a bit of a bizarre thought."

Hermione gripped the cold bottle in her hands. "I know. But I guess since none of us are really alive in the first place..."

She placed the Butterbeer to her mouth and took a drink.

Riddle stood up, feeling uneasy. There it was. That was it. It should kick in right about –

He heard a small intake of breath from the sofa behind him. He almost didn't want to see this happen, very nearly didn't want to see this strong, independent girl undermined by the potion he'd put in her Butterbeer. But it was too late for that. He turned back to look at her, and she was staring wide-eyed at him. She slowly recapped her Butterbeer and placed it on the ground, her mouth slightly open.

He wished he had just been able to make Veritaserum, but each different experiment would have taken a month, then, and he didn't feel like that type of time frame would have been realistic. So he had settled for a need-specific love potion, helped along by that book, Twilight Seduction, which had had so many useful ingredients and suggestions in its pages. He hadn't wanted to use any of the generic love potions, like Amortentia, because they yielded irritating side effects, often, like temporary memory loss in exchange for longer-lasting affection, which completely defeated the purpose.

So, Riddle had created his own potion, one that didn't need an antidote, one that would fade after four hours and would make the drinker forget any memory of having taken the potion.

"No, none of us really is alive," Riddle agreed after a while, "which is always sort of irritating to have to remember."

Hermione nodded breathlessly. "I know." And her voice was throaty and eager.

Riddle walked back to the sofa and sat down. He had hoped that it wouldn't alter her personality too much, but that would have been a bit too much to ask for, he supposed.

"Listen, Hermione," he said, and the second word stuck in his throat. _Hermione._ She had asked him to call her that, like he was a friend. Someone to be trusted... and he was shattering that trust by doing this. An entirely unfamiliar feeling swept through his gut, and he swallowed, and then he just focused on the fact that he was finally going to know all he wanted to know.

"Yeah?" she said, her eyes just a little too open, her face just a little too transparent.

Words sprang unbidden into his mind, words that Granger had spoken that night in the Entrance Hall while half-smiling at him, and the echo of her voice resounded around his head. _There are things that are more important than just getting what you want._

Riddle stared at this new Granger, and he bit back his words, and he examined those words she had said to him... _There are things that are more important than just getting what you want. _But, try as he might... he couldn't understand. He felt like he was so close to comprehending what she meant, so close to _getting_ it, and he felt like that unsettled feeling in his stomach was part of the answer, but there was a thin barrier that he could not surpass. So he just went back to what he _did_ understand: getting what he wanted. The goal. The purpose.

"I've really been wondering," he said quietly, "how you knew that name." He couldn't believe how bad his acting was at this second. All the sultry airs that usually came naturally, all the seduction that he had always been so good at – now he just felt stiff and awkward. The girl sitting in front of him was not the same one as had been there ten minutes ago.

"Which name?" she asked vaguely. He nearly chuckled. That was almost like something she would have said normally.

"You know," he said, meeting her eyes. "_My_ name."

"Oh." And her eyes got round, and she looked away, into the fire.

Riddle was shocked. This love potion was dizzyingly strong – stronger than Amortentia, stronger than anything they had ever discussed in school. It wasn't so much love as utter infatuation. Obsession.

And _still_ she saw fit not to tell him what he asked?

Well, not immediately. Maybe it would just take a tiny bit of time to coax it gently out of her. After all, falling so suddenly and dramatically in love couldn't be easy.

He turned to her. "Please?" he asked, and she turned back to look at him with those glimmering eyes. "Would you tell me how you knew?"

Hermione bit her lip. This striking, incredible, perfect boy was asking to know something that might hurt him. Who wanted to learn that they had been denied a normal existence, denied the application to teach at their Alma Mater, denied everything except a band of ruthless Death Eaters? How could anyone really want to hear that? How could she do that to him? She _loved_ him, and she was surer of that than she had ever been of anything in her life, all of a sudden –

"Do you really want to know?" she whispered as his eyes gazed into hers. She convinced herself, deluded herself into believing, that he looked at her with the same absolute affection she felt... filled with perfect, golden love, down to the fingertips...

"Yes, I do," he murmured, something flickering in his dark eyes, an emotion that she couldn't take time to focus on right now. And with those three words, her fate was sealed.

She licked her lips. How could she start? "I'm a Muggle-born," she said carefully, and she was heartbroken to see a look of momentary disgust slither across his face. She displeased him. She had to change, somehow... but enough with that self-pity. He had asked her to tell him how she knew the name.

"I'm a Muggle-born, so I never grew up with Wizarding families, or knowing the things regular Wizarding kids knew," she said quietly. "I got the letter to Hogwarts, bought my books, got all my supplies... but there are things you can't learn from books, things that authors just don't want to... or, well, can't write about."

She wanted to look away, but she couldn't tear her eyes away from him, every tragically beautiful contour of that dark face. "There was one thing I kept hearing. Something I didn't really understand. And... and it was that... well, people kept saying the words "You-Know-Who"... the older people used "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named" – but they always had this terrified look on their faces."

"I learned, eventually, that "You-Know-Who" and "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named" were the same person – this person called Lord Voldemort."

Riddle looked down at his fingers, raising his eyebrows. _You-Know-Who? Creative. _"And?"

"One of my best friends, Ginny... she was a first-year when I was in Second Year, and all this weird stuff started happening. She had found this diary, see... And she would write in it, and this person called Tom Riddle would write back."

He stared at her. That was one of his horcruxes. She had known, this whole time, that he had at least one horcrux, known that he'd been lying about the way he'd gotten there. "What happened?"

"The Chamber of Secrets opened," Hermione whispered. "I got Petrified by the Basilisk... but while I was Petrified, two of my friends went down to the Chamber, because Ginny had been taken down there... And Tom Riddle was there. He told them he was sucking the life out of Ginny as she wrote in it -" Hermione swallowed uncomfortably – "and then my friend stabbed the diary with a Basilisk fang, and Riddle vanished. But not before writing his name in the air, and showing my friends – "

She drew her wand, and something caught in Riddle's throat as she shakily etched letters into the air. Fiery letters.

_Tom Marvolo Riddle._

_I Am Lord Voldemort._

Hermione dropped her wand back into her lap, fairly satisfied with her answer to him. She hadn't had to tell him about all the terrible things he had done, hadn't had to risk saddening him... but why did he look so stricken? Hermione swallowed miserably.

Riddle's mind raced. One of his horcruxes was destroyed. One of them was _ruined_. That would mean... if he had succeeded in making seven horcruxes, as he had been planning, there would be only six left, no longer the most powerful magical number. He swallowed in bitter disappointment. All ruined by a second-year Hogwarts student.

"Who was your friend? The one who ruined the diary?"

Hermione glanced over at him. "Harry Potter."

There was a ring to the way she said the name, as if she expected him to know it. "Have... have I ever met him?" Riddle asked carefully, and Hermione let out a mirthless chuckle, completely surprising him.

"Oh, yes."

"How?"

Hermione _really_ looked reluctant now. She opened her mouth, but waited for an agonizing moment before saying, "You... you killed his parents."

A muscle twitched in Riddle's jaw, and he stared into the fire. That must have been why she hated him. That must have been why she could never trust him. He had probably just picked two random people to make horcruxes from, and they had happened to be her friend's parents –

"And you tried to kill Harry, too."

He frowned, now, and looked back at Hermione. "Tried?"

"He's famous for being the only person your Avada Kedavra didn't kill." She bit her cheek and glanced away.

Riddle chewed on the words. The only person? So he had killed many, then? "Why didn't Harry Potter die?"

"It didn't work, because his mother gave her life... well, out of love. Trying to save him," Hermione whispered.

"And what happened?"

"It rebounded on you," said Hermione quietly. "He was one year old."

Riddle's mouth opened slightly. _A one-year-old child? _Why would he ever need to waste his time killing an infant? And how could an infant… "I tried to... but... after...?"

"No, don't worry!" she said, looking unbelievably distressed at his displeasure. "You came back to life."

Of course he had. The horcruxes. "Okay," he said. "Okay." But he must not have looked reassured, because Hermione plowed on.

"In fact, you got everything you ever wanted," she said, looking absolutely miserable as she said it.

"And that would be...?"

She looked up at him with hollow eyes, and he nearly felt like he didn't _want _to know what was about to come out of her mouth, but that was ridiculous; of course he did –

"Where to begin?" Her voice was small and shaky. "Your followers killed Albus Dumbledore."

It was as if a bucket of ice water had been poured over his head. "Oh."

"And they infiltrated the Ministry of Magic... and made all this... all these laws against..." She swallowed miserably. "Mudbloods." A miniscule, forced smile was on her face, like she was genuinely trying to convince him that she was happy that all this had happened. "You took over Hogwarts, and wouldn't let... Mudbloods... in, or they got sent to Azkaban. In fact, the only thing you never did do was kill Harry, which you tried to do pretty much his whole life... but for all I know, you've done that, too, now."

"Why do you say that?"

"The last I know is that all your followers have completely overrun Hogwarts, which was pretty much the last safe place for the resistance... but now... it's not," she said, and her voice broke on the last two words, and Riddle felt like someone had grabbed something inside him and _pulled_. "So... congratulations," she said, and Riddle knew that if she had been herself while she said those words, they would have been a bitter, sarcastic snarl.

"I... I see."

Riddle suddenly felt sick.

He had never regretted killing his father and grandparents – after all, they had never been worth anything; his father had only ever been some good-looking Muggle who had managed to allure a Pureblood somehow – but Albus Dumbledore? He was a genuinely brilliant wizard, and though he and Riddle had always hated each other, Riddle had never really wanted him _dead_. Dumbledore trained some very important witches and wizards in his time, after all – ones that had been very useful to Riddle's studies, others who were surely useful to Riddle's cause...

And he himself had tried to murder a one-year-old? A baby?That didn't even sound logical. Why not just give the child to a follower and have them raise it to be another follower?

"May I ask you a favor?" he asked softly, turning back to Hermione.

"Whatever you want." Her eyes looked glazed. Riddle swallowed revulsion.

"I just need to perform one simple spell," Riddle said gently.

Her eyes narrowed a little, to his surprise. "Which one?"

"I just want to see what I look like," replied Riddle. "Legilimency."

She raised her eyebrows. "I... if you have to," she said. But Hermione couldn't let him see that he had been the one to kill her. That would push him away from her. After all, if he knew he had killed her once in the past, he might be scared off – or worse, feel inclined to do it again.

So Hermione took those four days of hiding and three days of torture in the Room of Requirement and locked them away, locked them inside a memory of what Voldemort had looked like as he tortured her, locked them behind those red eyes.

Riddle stood up and walked over to her, kneeling in front of her, his face a mere foot and a half from hers. She kept a firm grip on the memories of her death. He could not see those. Ever.

And then the spell hit her.

Riddle saw an eleven-year-old Hermione Granger, wide-eyed in a darkening Diagon Alley, waving her vine wand at Ollivander's, the wand which looked comically large in her young hand – a flourish of white-gold sparks – and then the image changed –

A young boy with jet-black hair, a funny-shaped scar, and broken glasses, and a swiftly muttered "Oculus Reparo", and he and the redhead next to him stared at the young Hermione in awe and she gave a sort of a saintly shrug, and Riddle recognized that familiar look of restrained superiority even on her first-year face –

And now she was her usual age, and walking through a Muggle neighborhood, and at the door of a certain white house – the door opened – her wand pointed at the two smiling Muggles standing there; one of them said, "Sweetie!" and then the spell hit them and they asked her, "Can we help you?", dazed looks on their faces, and a quick flip of the memory and she was walking away from the house, biting back tears furiously –

A strange room, a man with his head stuck inside a bell-jar, his head switching from infanthood to adulthood and back again, a cabinet that kept breaking and fixing – the boy with the glasses and the scar, older and terrified, Hermione looking defiant –

"Hermione," said the eleven-year-old redhead, dressed in pajamas, "Harry's been given an _Invisibility Cloak_," and Hermione's face lit up with delight –

Riddle sifted through several memories in a row of her, the redhead – who was apparently called "Ron" – and the Harry Potter boy, them laughing, them sneaking around together, getting into trouble together, enjoying Christmas, eating Easter eggs, yelling good-humoredly at Peeves, until there was something interesting.

A trembling Ron and Hermione stood, stock-still in fear, as the Potter boy screamed and yelled and _screamed_, something about nothing all summer, something about never knowing what was going on, and then Hermione dropped a name – _Dumbledore_ – and Potter asked, "Where are we, anyway?" and the reply was some obscure address in London...

Then, a dingy bar, and Hermione looked a little scared, talking to a crowd of over twenty, telling them about the so-called _feats_ Harry had done – and she said, "V-Voldemort." And as she said the name, she looked absolutely terrified, like something would burst out of the walls and strike her down –

And then, Hermione was nowhere to be seen, just a heavy-lidded, black-haired woman who had a haughty look about her, and she was requesting access to a Gringotts vault –

Next, Riddle saw Dumbledore as he had never seen him before, white-haired and tired-looking and ancient, with one hand _withered_ as if it were eighty years older than the rest of him... and Riddle's eyes opened wide in appalled shock, because God help him if that wasn't his own ring, right there on Dumbledore's finger, cracked and _broken_ – _NO –_

"Harry, don't say that name," was Hermione's whisper, and Harry snapped, "I don't care," looking infuriated, and they were in the middle of some type of woods, and they both Apparated –

The next memory was so different that Riddle had to take pause. The previous few had been dark, skewed, dingy, but this was brightly-lit; glorious – she looked a little younger – and she was walking down the steps with a boy on her arm, looking absolutely breathtaking, her hair sleek and curled into an elegant knot, a stunning dress on her body. Riddle moved on, frowning –

The halls of Hogwarts, but they were poorly-lit and dark. Most of the torches were blackened and charred, and spells flew left and right. Riddle's fists clenched in alarm as a green jet of light flew by Hermione's face, and she looked like she was sobbing in terror, and she fell to her knees and scrambled to get away –

The same dismal Hogwarts, a Hogwarts of fear, of danger. Hermione banged on the doors to the Great Hall, sending spell after spell rocketing at the chains that bound them shut, but they wouldn't open, and all the windows were similarly locked shut, and Hermione turned and suddenly the wild face of that heavy-lidded woman from earlier was inches from hers, and with a crazed laugh from the woman Hermione _screamed –_

And the scream continued, but now they were in some sort of manor, and a dark figure stood over her, pressing a wand to her, and Hermione was writhing under the Cruciatus Curse, sobbing, crying, screaming, _screaming_, a tangled mess of hair and limbs –

Now, just Hermione and Ron, inside some sort of tent, and they were kissing tenderly, and that faint smile on Hermione's lips stopped Riddle for just a heartbeat before he was whirled into the next memory –

"Harry! _No!_" she hissed, and the next thing was that Potter had leapt out from behind a bush, the moon high in the sky, and Riddle's breath caught as he saw – it must have been a _hundred_ Dementors, and a silvery Patronus blasted from Harry Potter's wand –

Hermione stalked towards a small, pale boy who had the exact same coloring as Abraxas, and her hand was raised – a solid fist – and she punched him right in the face. He went down like a stone, and Hermione turned back to Ron and Harry with a triumphant look –

"Is that him?" Hermione's voice whispered –

And the next memory was just an image. A blank, flat image of a hideous man, his paper-white skin milky in the moonlight, and his nose was nothing more than two snakelike slits, his eyes a furious red – something danced behind them, a reflected flicker of something, and behind him was an unidentifiable ceiling and walls... and he was holding a wand, a wand that Riddle clutched even as he recognized it, and Riddle resisted the memory's attempt to change with all his might, staring at the picture with horror.

This was what he looked like?  
This was Lord Voldemort?

His head spun, but he let go his hold, and the memory reel flew by once more. And now that they had seemed to reach a pattern, a pattern of horrifying things, that was all that flew by. Decapitated heads. Torture. Screams. Cries. Hermione performing the Fidelius Charm on herself – twice_._ Fully grown witches and wizards killing students left and right.

Riddle closed his eyes, letting the memories fly by without him. He yanked on his wand, falling back onto the floor, scrambling away from Granger as if she were one of the torturers from her nightmares – from her _past._

Her eyes were shut tight, and she was slowly shaking, tears trembling their way down her cheeks.

Riddle's breathing was labored. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know what to think. This girl had seen so _much_ – all those witches and wizards with expressions of delight as they tortured, murdered... and Riddle had thought she was naïve! He'd assumed she was an innocent, unexposed _student._ He hadn't seen a single thing from past sixth year classes, no; past the age of seventeen it was just running through the woods, sprinting away from people who were chasing in the dark, just curses singing hair and rocketing down midnight hallways, just fear and misery and such absolute, _stupid_ bravery.

The fire was hot at Riddle's back. He just looked at Granger, in complete shock, in desolate incredulity, and still she just shuddered and rocked back and forth, eyes shut, biting her lip in an attempt to keep from screwing up her face completely, her breaths raw and vocal.

So this was who he was. He was a wizard who made people tremble with fear at his very _name_, someone who was famous for being the wickedest human being ever to go bad, someone who attempted to kill babies and just ended up searing scars into their foreheads, a snakelike figurehead of death and Muggle hatred, someone who ordered his followers to attack insignificant teenagers. And two – _two – _of his horcruxes... broken and battered. He nearly wanted to back and search more, just to make sure the others were safe, though he supposed he wouldn't know the other five by sight. He had been planning on making them important, momentous items, but he hadn't decided on what they were to be yet – and he couldn't go back into that mind. He just... he couldn't.

Riddle felt emotionally drained, blank, as if it had been he who had undergone her past. He wondered what her death had been like, realizing he hadn't seen it. Had she been sneaking around a back hallway, trying to get away, when a green jet of light had collided with her chest, removing her from the earth with permanence?

The idea was suddenly and intensely disgusting to him, as no idea of death had ever been. How could someone kill Hermione Granger? She was golden. She was rock-solid. She was not to be meddled with. A sort of fire lit in his chest as he pictured it, Hermione being taken by surprise, that vague look of shock on her face – _now_ he understood why she always looked so terrified when she was surprised – and Riddle discovered that he was filled with absolute _rage_ at the notion.

He couldn't stop himself from getting a clear picture of a vivid green Avada Kedavra, right below her collarbone, spinning her off-balance, and that intelligent light dying from her hazel eyes – how could someone _do_ that? Didn't her murderer understand how brilliant she was? One teenager who was so much more than everything else in that castle, someone who would seal herself to be a Secret-Keeper for her two closest friends but who wouldn't let them do the same in return... a girl with all the knowledge in the world packed into that mighty mind of hers, a girl with fire in her heart – that heart just... stopped? Just like it was nothing? Like it didn't _matter_ to anyone, when it so clearly mattered to everyone who had ever known her, her two best friends, her family, that entire family of redheads, that wide-eyed blond girl, that hopeless boy in her Potions class, all her proud, expectant teachers – they had all _known._ They had all known that she was _more_ than just... just _there_, that she needed to grow and swell and save the damn world if she felt like she had to –

That was another thing. She had always spoken to him about helping people. How could she still have any faith in mankind at all, after her life, after those miserable last weeks of her existence – or maybe they had been months? Riddle suddenly felt like he was the weakest, most idiotic person ever to live, if he couldn't understand the notion of kindness, or that of optimism_, _or faith, or _hope_, notions that had apparently managed to live on in this girl in front of him even after _everything_ _else _had been ripped from her...

Riddle staggered back to his feet. Hermione's position had not changed. She sat on the sofa. Riddle didn't know how long he had been inside her mind, but it was pitch-black outside and it had been vaguely light as he had started burying himself in her life... a few hours, then, which wasn't atypical for Legilimency, but the potion didn't seem to have worn off yet.

She trembled, her masses of brown hair splayed all across her face, the back of her robes, the sofa cushion. Riddle had an exhausted arm on the mantel, still staring at her.

"Hermione," he said in a hoarse voice. She raised her reddened eyes to him, and he walked to her, certain of one thing: she had never deserved to get the life she'd gotten. _Just like me_.

But he had done all that to her. It had been _he_ who had single-handedly ripped her world, the world of thousands apart. Thousands. Thousands maybe _just like her_.

Riddle stopped as the thought hit him, and he practically doubled over, his stomach rolling in nausea. _Dear God -_

"Tom, are you okay?"

Her voice was the tiniest of whispers, but it gripped at him like she was yelling into his ear.

_I don't think I will ever be okay again._

"Yes, Hermione."

And she had seen fit to feel compassion for him, to care about him – had it just been _last night?_ Her worst enemy? The one she had hated and been terrified of her whole life – she had – how was she human? How could any human manage do that? _How?_

And he had pushed her away, selfish, stupid, unaware, uncomprehending of how good she was to have reached out to _him_, of all people...

Riddle opened his eyes, feeling like he wasn't quite in his right mind, feeling like_ her_ mind had completely managed to unseat his with its contents. Hermione sat in the middle of the couch, staring straight ahead, a very blank and very dark look on her face, the firelight washing it in warm, unsteady relief, and she looked at him with pure want.

He had taken so much from her. There was only one thing he could think to do for her right then, and he took that opportunity, stood Hermione up, wrapping her in a fierce, tight embrace. But he couldn't apologize. He couldn't say he was sorry. He felt like it would be cheap, coming from his mouth. He breathed in slow the smell of her hair, that bright, burning smell, and placed his hands to her back, her small body pressed up against him in the pathetic gratitude of the infatuated, and even as he did it, he felt sick that after everything else, he had even managed to ruin this by having poisoned her with a love potion.

Riddle bit his lip and stared straight ahead. Was this utter sickness what it felt like to regret? If it was, he was glad he had never felt it before. But this couldn't be regret. No. How could he regret something he hadn't even done yet? He was eighteen, not seventy. He wasn't the same... he _wasn't_ the same. He couldn't be the same. He would never order someone to kill Hermione Granger.

But even as he thought it, images flooded to his mind of what he had already done to his followers, over and over – people he'd had the potential to befriend, to get to know as Granger had gotten to know him. Just regular people, with regular faults and feelings, even if they weren't like him, even if they weren't as smart or couldn't do spells as well or lie as smoothly. And it flooded his mind for the first time in his life that maybe he was the one who was cursed, the one who was utterly impoverished, because he couldn't feel... couldn't feel _anything_ for these people_._ He could hardly feel anything at _all_.

But yes. He did. He felt this burn. He felt the flames of hell inside him, consuming him from the inside out, and it _hurt_, and he was glad of it, glad of the pain, because he _deserved_ it, and that was the hardest-realized thing of the entire ordeal.

Hermione froze in his arms.

She took two hesitant steps back. He looked down at her helplessly. She was back. The potion had worn off.

There was a silence that seemed to last forever. Then, "What did you _do?_" she whispered, her face the image of agony, her brows meeting in the middle, curved up in utter hopelessness. "Tom, what have you _done?_"

He didn't even start to lie to her. He was rooted to the spot.

"Why?" was her next word.

She hadn't forgotten it. She was supposed to have forgotten what had happened, but she hadn't forgotten anything.

Suddenly, an image rocketed through his mind, and he was horrified. Hermione finding him in the Quidditch stands. He had been researching that last ingredient in the book, the very last ingredient, the one he knew would cancel memory – he had even marked his page, he remembered – but that information about Vaisey, that conversation with Granger about her memories... it had completely put it from his mind, and he had bottled the potion that afternoon having _utterly_ forgotten that last ingredient, having apparently assumed he had already put it in. How? _How _could he have let her distract him from the_ goal?_

Hermione was speaking again, seeming to be reeling in utter denial. "Did you... did you just... was that..."

Hermione looked helplessly all around. Riddle's eyes were transfixed to her. He opened his mouth a little. "Hermione, I never... I didn't..."

"No!" she shrieked, and suddenly her arm was covering her face, and tears were flying from her eyes. "No! I can't... I can't believe you would do that to me! I can't believe I thought I could trust you for the _tiniest second!"_ Her voice was high and hysterical. "You will _never change!_"

He was frozen stiff by the last four words. "I can't believe I trusted you," she said, her voice tearing. Her hand was hopelessly trying to cover her face. "I think I'm going to be sick –"

He whispered, "Hermione..."

"I DON'T WANT TO HEAR IT!" she screamed. "GET AWAY FROM ME!"

She turned, stumbling, her feet hitting the ground with a loud _slap slap slap_ as she sprinted her way to the door. Riddle's eyes widened as she drew her wand and blasted the door out of its frame with a colossal _bang_ and she staggered through the smoking frame.

He almost let her go. Very nearly.

But then his feet seemingly moved of their own volition, faster than ever before. He careened out of the room. She was already out in the wide stone hallway, standing there crying helplessly.

"I told you to stay away," she sobbed, turning her face away from him, trying to hide her tears. She sucked in a whistling breath. "I told you... to stay _away_ _from me_," she snarled, a steely hardness working its way back into her voice.

He moved towards her, and the next thing he knew he was on the ground, screaming in pain. Her wand was in her shaking hand. But it was over after a split second of absolute agony – the curse wouldn't hold. She waved her wand wildly, and curse after curse collided with him, and he knew _exactly_ which curse she was using, but the pain never lasted for more than half a second, and he didn't know why. Wouldn't she have more reason to hurt him than he had _ever_ had to hurt someone before? He should have been in inexplicable, interminable agony; she should have been _enjoying_ it; she should have been _loving_ it. But she hammered her wand down and it was like a hot whip against him, clutching him and then letting go instantly. He was on his side, grasping at the floor helplessly.

"There!" she sobbed desperately, and she threw her wand to the ground with a tremendous clatter. "Now I'm on your level, you evil, you disgusting, you – is that what you wanted?"

He pulled himself to his feet. He swayed gently, holding her gaze.

"ANSWER ME!" she screamed, and she strode to him and raised a fist and it collided with a _smack_ right on his cheekbone, an unbelievably painful punch bouncing around his skull with a ringing resonation. Her other small hand beat desperately on his chest, and she kicked at his legs and shoved him until he fell backwards, unable to do anything but absorb the pain, and then he stood again, slowly, tiredly, every inch of him aching under her insane assault.

She started crying again, the tears spilling over in an insuppressible torrent. "I've been so stupid," she cried. "I've been... so... stupid!"

Something inside him was cracking as he watched her. She looked so wild, so angry, so dangerous. "Hermione," he said softly. "Hermione."

She didn't answer, just looked at the ground and sobbed. "Hermione?" he said through gritted teeth. "Please... please don't cry. Please."

Before she could do anything else, he had placed three long fingers on her chin and raised it so that she was looking him in the eye. He put away his blank expression, letting everything he was feeling surface on his face in raw emotion. There was a second where he met her eyes, and she caught her breath a bit, and swayed slightly, and Riddle felt dizzied by the color of her injured gaze. And then he was leaning forward and pressing his lips to hers, and _nothing_ mattered but the feeling of her mouth under his, the feel of her shoulders under his hands, the gentle pressure of her moist pink lips, the softness of her tearstained cheek as his nose lightly touched it—and he moved a little closer until he could feel her pressed against his chest, drawing back only to touch his lips to hers again, hot _feeling_ boiling deep in his traitorous stomach—and every space between them was far too much, and his hand was on the small of her back, his other on her cheek, and electricity, he could swear, jumped through him, his heart pounding, every part of him burning for her, burning for how he felt right then.

Hermione wasn't doing anything. And when he drew away from her, something on fire in his gaze, she stepped away as if he had done nothing at all, her expression wan, tired, drawn.

There was a long silence where all he could do was look at her, and all she could seem to do was look at him, although her gaze flickered once to a spot behind him as if she were a bit distracted, as if her mind weren't even there at all. And then, "No," she whispered. "Not anymore."

He watched as she picked up her wand, put it in her pocket, and walked away from him, down the long hall. She didn't look back. Not once. Not even when he yelled, "Hermione!"

Not even when he yelled, "Hermione!"

Not even when he yelled, "Hermione!"

No matter how many times he called for her, she never turned, and she never looked.

She was gone.

* * *

**So I'm feelin' like in the chapter-select bar everything else should just be Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, etc., and this one should read "THE CHAPTER WHERE SHIT GOES DOWN". Hmm.**


	15. Chapter 15

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* * *

Mina and Godric saw what was happening and sprinted back up the staircase before they could be seen.

They had heard sounds of loud voices, wondered what the hell was happening – but when they had gone down the stairs, they had seen Riddle kissing Hermione, and fled.

"She didn't even ask me if I was okay at dinner," Mina said.

"Well, I mean, you weren't exactly obvious. You're always sort of stoic," laughed Godric.

Mina shrugged. "She should have been able to tell something was up, at least."

Godric kissed her on the forehead. "Look – if she's happy going around with Riddle, maybe we should just leave her alone. It's not like we ever really knew that much about her relationship with the guy, and now we know for sure Riddle's a bad sort, I'm not exactly inclined to put us in danger, if we're just going to be arguing with her about him anyway."

"I guess. I just... I feel like we're letting her down, you know? He's... there's just something about the way he..." She shook her head.

"I know," Godric said. "I know."

"In the meantime," said Mina with a smirk, "we need to find somewhere we won't be interrupted by random hallway noise." Godric grinned back, and he gripped her hand as he helped her through the portrait hole.

xXxXxXxXx

Hermione went down the stairs, hundreds of stairs, interminable stairs, her eyes dry and her chest feeling queasy post-breakdown. Her mind was completely blank, because she should have known this would happen, but she didn't want to admit it to herself. So she just walked dully out of Hogwarts and trailed all over the snowed-over grounds for hours and hours until she found herself lying down by the lake in the snow, casting an exhausted Calenta to make sure she didn't freeze. Then she let herself fall unconscious in dreamless, restless sleep.

Hermione awoke at dawn.

She wrapped her arms around her knees and stared out over the frozen lake. The sky was a flat grey sheet, and the lake was a dark slate platter beneath, rippled with captured currents.

Everything she had worked so hard to keep to herself – no, not even to herself. She had shoved it back beneath herself, not letting it surface except that one time as Mina had yelled at her and sometimes during her nightmares, not letting anything faze her – only to be deceived by the _smallest _hint at an actual friendship. He had never really participated, she thought bitterly. He had only ever seemed to _put up_ with her, as if she were the rotten, undesirable one in the equation. _Mudblood... _He had never said anything nice to her. He had never done anything nice for her. It was through pure incidence that any of his actions might have happened to make her feel like they were getting along.

Hermione pressed her closed eyes to her knees, black overtaking her vision, darkness marred only by that image of his face before he had kissed her. Like he was sorry. Like he felt bad. Like he felt _anything at all._ Hermione made a strangled noise that echoed in the cold air.

Everything he had done had led up to his handing her that bottle of Butterbeer, something a friend would do to comfort someone else. She should have felt unsteady about drinking something Riddle gave her. She should have heard it as the hiss of air escaped when she popped the cap. She should have seen it in his eyes; she should have _smelled_ it in the air. She never should have tasted it. What would Mad-Eye Moody say?

Well, Moody was dead. Like everyone else. Like her.

She felt as if she was sitting on air, the ground just not there beneath her, like if she so much as breathed in she could fall and collide with that black ocean of misery again.

What did it matter? She had always known he would try to hurt her, again and again, and Tom Riddle always succeeded when he wanted to hurt someone. Infallibly. Reliably.

At least now he had what he needed, so she had a perfect excuse never to speak to him ever again. Hermione felt almost relieved. She was finally feeling like she should have felt all along – disgusted with Tom Riddle, wanting absolutely nothing to do with him, repulsed by his very existence, uncurious, dispassionate...

So why was she _miserable_? It didn't make any logical sense. She'd known he would try to betray her time and again. She'd known he could hurt her. She'd _known_ he was Lord Voldemort. She had _gone into_ the game knowing all this. She should have come out unsurprised, displeased at the _very_ most.

What was he doing at that very second, Hermione wondered? Was he sitting on that black leather sofa, his legs sprawled out in that lazy, dominant posture he had, his wicked smile firmly in place and his dark eyes shining with victory? He was happy about this, almost certainly – After all, he had finally achieved his goal. He had worked hard enough on that potion, worked enough to win her trust, and it hadn't been just a waste of time for him, because she had finally let down her guard. Let him _into her mind _and _showed _him all of his beautiful handiwork, the terror, the darkness, the torture. He was probably cheering inwardly, with new knowledge that he was the utter master of the Wizarding World, the knowledge that now _everyone_ feared him.

But how could he be happy to see the misery of others? Hermione just couldn't comprehend the appeal. How could he feel like his mission was to murder everyone else, to spread pain and heartbreak to people for absolutely _no wrong_ they had ever committed against him?

She bit her cheek until blood flooded her mouth, and then the pain kept her from crying. She opened her mouth. A red drop from her tongue sizzled down into the snow, like a tear, a bloody tear from her treacherous, faithless lips, lips that never should have touched that bottle, lips that never should have touched his.

That kiss... she couldn't remember a thing about it now, could only remember that she had waited for it to stop... When he had drawn back, that look in his eyes, that fiery, raw, impassioned look – she had never seen such mindless lust in any eyes. She had never thought herself capable of instilling it in anyone. And now... now, she never wanted to see it again. Especially not on that face. Especially in those twin velvet eyes, eyes she could _never_ trust. What had he thought, that he could lure her in with one kiss?

Hermione felt sick. She hiccupped miserably.

He had looked so... human, right before and right after the kiss, and in-between, his mouth so eager – Hermione's mouth itched uncomfortably, and she felt like cutting off her lips just to get rid of that feeling. She felt like placing a hot poker to her mouth to burn away the wrongness, to burn away the deception, the _first_ kiss she had had since Ron – since someone so good at heart it was hard to believe, and now this. How far she had fallen, from that haven of Ron into this hellish torment of something that was never the true Tom Riddle.

Nothing, now. No surprise. Alone. Empty.

Hermione lay back in the snow, removing the Calenta charm, and willed herself to freeze into an absolute catatonia, where it wouldn't hurt anymore, or even where she could understand why it felt like her heart was breaking.

xXxXxXxXx

"Hermione, it really is very late – Hermione?"

Mina ripped back the bedsheets in shock, as if Hermione could be perfectly flat under them, as if the bed weren't empty. She swallowed fear. Surely she hadn't... moved on? Maybe she had stayed the night with Riddle, as repulsive as that thought was. She could wait, wait and see if she saw Hermione that day...

Hermione wasn't at breakfast, or at lunch. Mina, Albus and Godric finally set out to find her in the afternoon, scared sick. It didn't seem realistic. Hermione had scarcely been there for two months. She couldn't have moved on. It just wasn't rational.

"Hermione?" yelled Mina, standing by the lake, looking around.

"I'm here, Mina," said a reproachful voice scarcely ten feet away. Mina jumped. There had been some more snow during the day – Hermione was lying in three feet of snow, flat against the ground and completely invisible except from right next to her.

"Oh. Merlin, you scared us," Mina said. "We thought you'd moved on... Are you alright?"

"Fine. I was practicing flying for a while, but I thought I'd try some meditation now."

Mina nodded. "Okay. Well... okay, I'll leave you in peace, then. You coming to dinner?"

"Probably."

Mina waved, relief flooding her, and went back up to the castle to tell Godric and Albus.

Hermione turned her face to the right a little, staring at the wall of white crystals surrounding her. Mina hadn't suspected a thing. Hermione should have felt happy about that, but she felt betrayed. Perhaps she had thought that anyone who was an inherently better person than Tom Riddle should be more sensitive to hidden emotion. She was disappointed.

xXxXxXxXx

Riddle was still under the sheets when the sun set. He hadn't removed himself from his bed all day. There wasn't anything of appeal outside the room, after all. He suddenly felt exhausted of the distance people gave him in terror, that barrier between him and the rest of the world. He almost longed for Araminta, because she at least thought he was a regular eighteen-year-old with whom she could hold a normal conversation. But it was irrational to long for that ignorance; Araminta didn't know a thing about who he really was. Everyone who knew had that distance – even Abraxas, one of the friendliest people here – even Abraxas kept carefully away from familiarity, from friendliness, and Riddle felt like if he left his bed and encountered that just then, it would just irritate him to no end.

At about three in the afternoon, Abraxas had come to his room briefly, just to check that he hadn't moved on. "Oh, good," Abraxas had said. "You're still here."

"Yes," Riddle had muttered in disappointment. "Yes, I'm here."

Abraxas had bowed his head a little and walked away swiftly, not asking about the blasted door, and Riddle had _wanted_ him to, so badly, had wanted to _speak_ about this with someone who wouldn't tell anyone else, someone who could give him information as to the workings of the mind of an 18-year-old girl.

Riddle closed his eyes. He had gone his entire life without leaning on someone else; this tiniest of tiny dilemmas was little reason to start. In fact, this was victory. This was good. He should have been pleased, not feeling... numb.

That feeling he'd had during the kiss... that had been entirely unplanned. He should have known to stick to the plan; he should _not_ have gotten attached to her damn smile and her constant laughter and the way she would roll her eyes and blow her hair from her eyes and the way she would attempt to correct him and they'd have to dig through the library to see who was right, and the stubborn looks in her eyes and the way she would drop his first name just so and the way she stuck by him no matter how utterly blank or downright mean he was being – she always stayed until she wanted to leave, and would not leave a second before, no matter what he tried, and he had started adjusting for that. He had started adjusting for everything about her.

Then, when he had pulled away from kissing her, there had been such a writhing feeling in his chest as he had never felt in his life, like someone was strangling him from the inside out, like someone had lit a furnace in his stomach, his hands practically shaking – but that blank, dead look on her face. She hadn't even considered for a second kissing him back. It hadn't even been an option for her.

Rage burned in Riddle, and he flipped over, burying his face childishly into his pillow. He was being so infantile. So he had kissed some _girl_, and she hadn't wanted to kiss him back. How utterly _horrifying_; surely the world would _end,_ right? Next he would be fretting about maybe it being his kissing that had driven her away, and just the thought made a tiny smirk appear on Riddle's face for the first time all day. No other girl had ever complained...

And there he was, reassuring himself! Like it was even an issue! Like it _mattered!_ Like the feelings of some _girl_ were consequential!

Riddle let out a hot breath of frustration into the pillow. Hermione would have hated that thought. She would have told him that everyone's feelings mattered, that everyone deserved to be happy, blah, _blah..._ She so faithfully believed that, even... even after... after all those memories.

Images rushed painful and vivid into Riddle's mind, completely unasked. He gritted his teeth against the screaming that seemed to echo in his ears, squeezed his eyes closed against images of Hermione, wild-eyed, sprinting around corners with a sob in her breath. And again, that feeling in his chest, a defensive feeling, a feeling of... of _righteous anger_.

He let out a tiny growl. He did not feel emotion on behalf of other people. It was stupid. Stupid. He had enough to deal with on his own without having to feel for other people, people who were probably a lot better at feelings and things than he was.

Why, then, was that feeling _not_ draining away?

She had ruined everything.

Riddle quietly dwelt on the fact that he was the master of the entire magical community, carrying on the noble separatist work of Salazar Slytherin, keeping Muggle-borns in their rightful place... getting all that legislation through. His first choice had always been teaching, because Merlin knew teaching was just a glorified way to show off magical knowledge and maybe give information to a select worthy few in the process. But being an immortal ruler of the Wizarding World... that seemed good, too.

Riddle put a pale hand to his face, tracing the outlines of his facial features with mild distress. How had the physical transformation happened? Had he been in some sort of accident that required very poorly-done facial reconstruction? Seventy-year-old men didn't look... like that. A bald, smooth face, red-eyed... he didn't look like he _could_ have an age. He looked like he had been there since the beginning of time, or not at all. There wasn't an age associated with that sort of face. And there certainly wasn't an age to that look of malice.

Riddle swallowed. His hands had looked like torture instruments, dangerously thin and long, holding that wand with the same reverence, the same casual beauty as always.

He didn't know what to think about his future self. If he had met that person, he would have been fearful. A snake-man, hardly even human-looking...

If his horcrux plan had succeeded, he wouldn't really be human, then, would he? He would be _super_human. He would be so much more than mortal.

In which case... why did he look so much more like a _monster _than a _god_?

Physical appearances were trivial, though. He had... _everything._

Yet he dwelt on the dark Hogwarts, that fearsome Hogwarts, with reprehension. This had been the first place in his life he had ever _had_ anything, and that indebted him to the school. This was the place he had garnered his first followers, the place where he had started to come into his own, especially since the Muggle world had been...

Well, filthy Muggles aside, Riddle felt conflicted about having ruined Hogwarts as a place of education. Surely there had been students there who'd had potential? Even future students who could grow up to be useful? No; the overrunning of Hogwarts was unfortunate, not to be cheered. Especially since such... acts were taking place in those classrooms, classrooms that had seemed nearly sacred to Riddle, for they had been the jump-start of everything that truly mattered in the world. He wondered... had the future Lord Voldemort forgotten that sacredness? There was a sense of nobility in the things that had provided assistance in one's past, and the future Voldemort—the present Voldemort—had defiled and scorched that nobility. Riddle didn't like that. A Slytherin always had unspoken respect for things that were truly great, and Hogwarts was one of those things, without question.

And again, unrequested, Riddle's mind flicked back to Hermione Granger. This had been happening all afternoon, and it was not a satisfactory result. He couldn't seem to move past the fact that he had ordered his followers to torture and kill a bunch of teenagers. Where had his manipulation skills gone, that he couldn't even convince them to join his cause? What _was_ his cause? He hadn't managed to find any trace of a bigger purpose in Granger's memories. What did his past self feel like he could accomplish once he had taken over the Ministry? Would he just start Hogwarts back up again like nothing had happened, only everything would be segregated? He felt like something like that had been buried in the depths of her memory. That was a good thought – but how could anyone return to teach there after he had spilt blood on every floor, put screams in every corridor? He could get his followers to teach, create his own doctrine of necessary teaching topics...

That was trifling, though, a trouble he wouldn't have to deal with as the ruler of all. Would his life betray itself to delegating every task to less able followers, while he was as alone with his thoughts as he had ever been? What a miserable existence.

That Potter boy had seemed foolish. All that anguish he had unleashed on his friends... Riddle would have internalized it and used it to his advantage to find out everything he wanted to know. Potter had seemed a bit annoying, actually, very teenaged and immature on many counts, as had the Ron boy.

Riddle found his jaw clenching involuntarily at the thought of that boy. He and Hermione were obviously... together, but there had been so much evidence of his utter incompetence, and his complete disrespect for all that was important to Hermione. He had just... fled, leaving Potter and Granger alone in those dangerous woods. What was so bad about a buffoon like that evacuating the premises? He had probably only ever been a hindrance to them, anyway, with emotional episodes nearly rivaling those of the Potter boy and no great intellect to speak of. What could Granger be attracted to about _that_?

Riddle was reminded of his thoughts on Dumbledore. Dumbledore, whose white tomb had glowed in the light. Dumbledore, who had had the most glorious, beloved funeral Riddle could ever imagine, and Hermione had _sobbed_. That was why she clung to him in this world, why she wanted to be close to him, Riddle realized – she had already known him, known that he had died, and had felt incredible affection for the ancient Dumbledore. Riddle shifted uncomfortably, playing with a small fray on his bedsheets. Albus Dumbledore... dead. It was hard to picture, hard to fathom. What had he done that had made Lord Voldemort despise him so much? A childish rivalry in schoolboy days was hardly the stuff of high-stakes murder.

Riddle's stomach growled angrily. He hadn't eaten anything all day – he was too busy with his thoughts.

He pulled up his shirt and scrutinized his slightly-concave stomach. Purged of everything. And across the muscles of his abdomen and chest, five thin white lines, criss-crossing, a webwork of self-inflicted deception.

He tucked his shirt back in, stood slowly, and flicked his wand lazily. The door soared back into its frame with a loud _crunch_ and repaired itself. Riddle trailed down to the Great Hall, unwilling to walk in and see those four full tables with exactly two people he could tolerate. The cheerful clatter was oddly distant to him as he stood just outside the doors. He glanced out through the Entrance Hall. The sun had just slipped over the horizon, and someone was walking in through the main doors.

It was almost shocking to see her walking by him, as if he had thought she would just vanish from the world after he had devoted the entire day to her cursed memories and the remembered feel of kissing her –

He watched her. She walked into the Entrance Hall, stopped, shook the snow from her clothes, and dried her hair, using that familiar spell to comb out the knots in that frizzy mass, and then she started walking towards the Great Hall.

If she saw him, she made no indication. She passed within a few feet of him, not even appearing like she was straining not to look at him. His gaze was glued to her, though, as she walked over to the Gryffindor table and calmly sat down next to Mina and Albus, across from Godric. She was facing the Slytherin table, as usual, which turned out to be terrible, because as Riddle slowly took his own usual space, facing the Gryffindor table, he could not rip his eyes from her face.

It was as if she had put him under some sick spell. As was customary, no one spoke directly to him, so his attention remained focused on her the entirety of dinner.

She looked... she looked very tired. She was talking, participating in the conversation, but there was a wan look to her eyes that Riddle recognized even from twenty feet away. It was that look she'd had after her friend, that King boy, moved on, but it was quite well-concealed. The other three at the table didn't seem to bring it up.

But then she laughed, her lips drawing back in that impish grin of hers before she burst into a merry peal of laughter that seemed to cut right through the atmosphere. Riddle clenched his teeth and his hands absentmindedly placed his fork and knife on the plate in front of him. Then – suddenly – anger. Unfounded _rage_.

His eyes speared into the Mina girl and Godric Gryffindor's back. This was all _their _fault. Even after he was gone, they remained. Even after all his efforts to get rid of them, _they_ had won, and the thought made Riddle want to throw up.

He waited quietly. Hermione left the table about ten minutes before Dumbledore, and about five minutes after that, Mina and Godric stood up. Riddle did too, quietly, following them out of the Great Hall.

They went to the Grand Staircase, but they didn't get off where they should have to go to the Gryffindor common room. They continued higher, and Riddle didn't know where they were going, but there weren't any people, luckily. He followed at a safe distance. They didn't even notice him.

The mindless anger was still overtaking him, making him feel detached, cold, unaware of anything at all except those two Gryffindor backs walking in front of him, and then suddenly they stopped and turned around.

"Why are you following us?" Godric asked uneasily, and as he looked at the boy opposite them he was stunned by Riddle's eyes. They were narrowed practically into slits, his serious brow curved into an unbelievably angry expression. And Godric could have sworn he saw an alarming flash of _red_ in his eyes. _What in hell's name?_

"This is all your fault," Riddle hissed.

Mina glanced at Godric in mild alarm. "What are you -"

"This is _all your fault,_" Riddle repeated, in a lower voice this time. He drew in a breath slowly, and suddenly his wand was in his hand. Mina gripped Godric's hand in fear, and Riddle's eyes flew to their joined hands, and that seemed to be the tipping point, for some _bizarre_ reason –

"Crucio," he said quietly, and it was so unexpected, so surreal, that he was saying that in that corridor, just twenty feet from the Infirmary, just fifty feet from the entrance to the Grand Staircase, right out in the open –

And the spell knocked Mina to her knees, and she turned her face upwards and _screamed_, so loud, so unbelievably _loud..._

Godric's yell of rage was followed by a spell that forced Riddle to create a shining orange diamond of protection, and just like that the curse was broken and Mina keeled over, her face pale, her eyelids fluttering weakly, hair in her face and all over.

"You're _demented!"_ Godric yelled at Riddle, his green eyes hard and furious. "You're _sick!_"

Something inside Riddle seemed to change at that word, and he took a bit of a step back, blinking, and every bit of expression fled from his face in an instant, leaving him blank once more, and he turned and _ran._

Godric cradled Mina in his arms, stroking back her black hair. "Oh, Merlin, Mina... talk to me -"

Her breathing was light, her eyes crazed. "I'm... I'm okay, Godric, I just -"

She gasped for breath. Godric took out his wand and placed it to her temple, and a silvery glow laid itself onto her body. Her breath calmed, and she opened her eyes fully, looking slightly recovered. "I don't even know... what..." she whispered, staring up into Godric's eyes with a hopeless plea.

"He's insane," muttered Godric, rage boiling in him, and caressed Mina's face, soothing her. "We have to tell -"

"No," Mina said, her eyes shooting wide open. "He'll find us. He'll _kill_ us."

"Hey, we can't die, remember?" joked Godric feebly with a bit of a grin, helping Mina shakily to her feet. She rolled her eyes.

"Hardly reassuring," she replied, and Godric was immensely relieved to see her start to regain some of her composure. "He won't do that again," she said determinedly. "We'll … we'll just keep an eye on him and make sure he never follows us. Shouldn't be that hard."

Godric shook his head. "Mina," he said, "that was the _Cruciatus Curse._ He's a Dark Wizard. I don't trust someone like that _anywhere._"

Mina swallowed. "I don't even know what I did. I didn't do anything."

Godric thought for a second. What possible motive... "It's Hermione," he realized slowly. "He's... he's jealous. He's jealous that we're friends with her, because we're Gryffindors."

Mina's eyes widened. "That must be it. God, what a – I mean – what do we _do?_"

"Well, if she's going around snogging him, she obviously doesn't know what he really is," Godric murmured, "and she's not going to believe it if we just, you know, _spring it_ on her that her boyfriend is someone who would use an Unforgivable... I don't know what we can do."

Mina tied back her hair, thinking hard, and then she bit her lip. She remembered Hermione saying, _"He's manipulative. And evil."_

"Maybe she already knows," Mina suggested.

"If she knew he used that type of Dark magic, there's no way she would associate with him."

"Well, then, there's only one thing we _can_ do, and that's stay away from Hermione."

Godric's face drew in dismay. "But... I mean...that's so cowardly."

"No, it's self-preservation," Mina insisted. She picked up her wand with shaking hands and put it back in her pocket. "Unless you'd like to feel that curse yourself, and I guarantee you don't."

Godric's green eyes rested fiercely on hers. He wasn't scared of facing Riddle's Cruciatus, but Mina? "I will _never_ let him do that to you. Never again."

Mina was distracted. "How do we tell her?"

"We can't," Godric sighed. "Not without her getting mad. I mean, if she randomly told you, 'Hey, Mina, I can't be seen with you in public because that Godric kid is an evil bastard', how would you react? Not well."

Mina let out a humorless chuckle. "You're right," she said softly, and kissed him. "Okay. If this is the way it has to be..."

"I hope he doesn't hurt her," Godric said. "You know... abuse her."

"Hermione's strong," Mina scoffed. "She wouldn't let anyone push her around. You saw that duel."

Godric nodded in agreement. "Let's get out of here," he said, and they hurried back to the Gryffindor common room.

Meanwhile, a very disturbed Jared Pippin and Mungo Bonham snuck back behind the Infirmary door. The Infirmary was silent, the only occupant the unconscious Miranda Goshawk. "I can't believe Riddle..." breathed Mungo. He looked like he had just been punched in the stomach.

"Yeah, me neither, mate. But those two... they're not going to tell anyone."

"Who is there to tell?" Mungo sighed, a weary look in his eyes. "No one's in charge of this place."

"Listen. It's their business, I guess, so we should just stay out of it."

Mungo laughed. "Jared," he said, "when have you ever kept your nose in your own business?"

"You do have a point there," Pippin mused, shaking back his light brown hair with a bashful grin.

Mungo's expression slid back into worry. "How can people do those things?" he wondered aloud. "What makes them think that's okay?"

Jared shook his head. He placed his hands on Mungo's shoulders. "Evil will always, _always_ be a mystery," he said, "and don't you worry _your_ pretty little head over it, because we'll just heal who comes our way and send them on with love. Right?"

"Right," said Mungo. "Thanks, mate. You always cheer me up."

"That's my job," Jared said with a warm smile of his own, and he kissed Mungo lightly and clapped him on the shoulder. "Now let's go search for that potion for our comatose friend over there." He nodded over to Miranda, leading Mungo over to the potions cabinet by one gentle hand.

xXxXxXxXx

"Listen, Albus, mate, you can't let Hermione know why we're not talking to her," Godric said hurriedly. "I... just... who wants to know that about their boyfriend?"

Albus nodded slowly, a hollow look invading his eyes at that last word.

"I would warn you to stay away from her, too," Mina said, "but Riddle doesn't seem to hate you as much for some reason -"

"I can handle Dark magic," said Dumbledore simply. Mina and Godric exchanged a startled glance.

"...okay, then!" Godric laughed a bit nervously, nodding to Albus. Then he sobered up. "And... please don't tell her," he requested quietly.

Albus said, "I won't." But as the couple walked away, he placed a hand to his forehead and sighed. Hermione Granger either was very confident, or very lacking in common sense, or perhaps both. He couldn't fathom that she was in a romantic relationship with Riddle, and if Riddle was going around using _Crucio_ so lightly, he was even more entrenched in the Dark Arts than Albus had thought.

xXxXxXxXx

Hermione felt a little strange these days. It was three days before the Christmas Dance, and most girls were excited, but she just felt... subdued. She had turned in a request slip to Catalina Lightfoot, the Gryffindor Seeker, for a dress, but without any great sort of enthusiasm, even with Catalina's happy expression as she took Hermione's measurements. "You've got a lovely figure," commented Catalina, and she flashed Hermione that pearl-white grin as she hummed and danced gracefully around Hermione's body, measuring arms, legs, hips, waist, neck...

"Thanks," Hermione said with a tired smile. Catalina really was a very sweet girl, just as Mina had said.

Thinking about Mina hurt. Without any sort of warning, two days after the Riddle incident, she and Godric had abandoned Hermione completely. They sat at the end of the Gryffindor table with most of the Quidditch team, leaving Hermione with Albus.

Albus was another issue. He always seemed preoccupied. Harry had always been frustrated with Dumbledore for never telling him anything, keeping him completely out of the loop, and now Hermione felt the same. Every so often he would shoot a glance up at her, but their fragments of conversation were awkward and she felt like there was an ocean between them. Hermione wondered aloud to him a lot, but he always gave a slow shrug and a reassuring shoulder-pat and very little more.

More and more, she was realizing that this Dumbledore was not the Dumbledore of Earth. He hadn't ever been on a Chocolate Frog card; he hadn't ever met Harry Potter; he hadn't ever dueled Grindelwald; he'd never been the Transfiguration Professor of Tom R – but that was neither here nor there. The point was that he was a different person. He'd undergone different events. He was even a different age – the Dumbledore of earth had been well over a hundred, but this Albus was probably only around sixty in true years, and that fact unsettled Hermione a bit. She felt like no one should go around calling themselves Albus Dumbledore if they weren't the Dumbledore from earth...

She never saw him outside of meals, either. She supposed he was always visiting Miranda, or something, but that left Hermione alone, alone as she researched and theorized. She hadn't tried anything to do with her thread theory discovery, because with the resurfacing of all her memories... she found she was scared of returning, all of a sudden. It had taken so long to build resistance to her memories, that hard bravery that made her _want_ to return there – but that was all broken now. And now her mind was unfocused, and she didn't trust that mind, because any moment she relaxed, it flew like a magnet to Tom Riddle.

He always looked at her during meals. It wasn't just the occasional glance, either. It was a ready, constant stare, and every time she looked up and met his eyes, she felt like crying again, and mentally kicked herself. What was he doing? Hadn't he gotten what he wanted? Why was there that weird, unfamiliar look on his face, _all the time_? Couldn't he just leave her alone now, now that he had stripped everything from her, her memories, her dignity...

What did he want? Did he want to violate her physically, or something? Surely that was all that was left on his Ultimate Evil To-Do List: rape virgin Gryffindor. Hermione didn't discard the possibility, as she kept remembering that look on his face after he had stopped kissing her... that look of want – of hunger. And she shuddered every time she thought about it.

No matter how much time she devoted to thinking about him, about the kiss, about what he wanted from her now, about why sometimes in the hallways he would say, "Hermione," as if he actually expected her to turn and look at him... no matter _how much time_ she spent thinking about him, she would _not_ crumble and speak to him. There was no reason her mind should be polluted with any information from him, no matter what that information revealed, no matter if it was the reason he kept his eyes fixed on her like she were a bright light, no matter if it was an explanation of his motives for every piece of evil he had ever done, _no matter_ if it was some twisted childhood memory that could somehow justify his absolute _badness._

Because Tom Riddle was evil, and he was bad for her, and that was all there was to it, and she might think about terrible things she wanted to make happen to him and she might still somehow be completely fixated on him and she might be completely alone but she _would not break_. Or even bend. As she had said – No. Not anymore. No more playing his sick mind games. No more being the yarn to his itching claws. She was tired of living, which was sickly ironic, tired of being, and just the idea of speaking with him _ever again_ exhausted her.

It was strange, though – there was no more curiosity. Not an inkling.

Just a dark magnetism that she had to resist with every fiber of her being.

xXxXxXxXx

Riddle had cursed his irrational Cruciatus nearly the minute he got back to his room. Why was he so mad at them?

It was because of her. That thought that had run through his mind – that they had won – _no._ _He_ had won. He knew everything, now. Knew the past, knew his future. They still knew nothing! Why had he gotten so angry that they got to keep the girl when he now had everything that mattered about her, everything that was _useful_?

Then again, if he wanted to keep her, that was just his right, wasn't it? Tom Riddle always got what he wanted... and it was useless to deny that he wanted her. After all... he couldn't _speak_ with anyone about what he'd seen. They'd think he was a complete lunatic. She was the only other person who knew everything he'd done...

She was always alone, now. Now that Gryffindor and his girl had utterly deserted her, in the aftermath of the curse. How selfish, Riddle mused. The two Gryffindors had abandoned her at the first whiff of danger. Some _bravery._

He kept trying fruitlessly to make her acknowledge his presence. At meals, she would, every so often, look up at him, but there was no resulting expression. She would just look blankly away like he was any other idiot in the room. When he said, "Hermione," to her, in passing, it was as if she didn't even hear him, which made him almost insane with anger. He considered so many a time just pulling her aside, pulling her into an empty room where she could not ignore him, but he always seemed to revile the idea just as quickly. He had done too much to her to attempt to force her into being in his presence once more – that wouldn't yield any sort of satisfactory result. No; force didn't work with the girl. How tiresome.

He had pulled himself out of the quagmires of denial. He acknowledged it to himself: he wanted this Mudblood girl back, for whatever reason, no matter her heritage, no matter her being a Gryffindor, no matter to _anything_. He wanted her back _fiercely,_ with such egocentric greed that he could almost believe he was regretful about having tricked her.

And, he realized, something had changed just a bit, inside of him. He discovered that he didn't want to hurt her again. Tom Riddle had always told himself that people who associated with him were just going to have to get used to getting hurt, and he had never really cared when he hurt them... but with this girl, he just didn't want to put her in danger of that anymore. He didn't want to see that look on her face, as irritating as that fact was, the fact that he _remembered _her every facial expression like they were of consequence – but he didn't want her to look... sad. Partially because the memory of her face when she was sad made him inexplicably angry. He wasn't sure whether the anger was directed at her, but just remembering that battered look got under his skin and irritated him immensely.

He had completely and utterly broken his rule of remembering people's faces, as hers was the clearest image he seemed to be able to recall right then, but then again – she deserved to make him break his rules. She had managed to make some sort of imprint. She had, somewhere along the line, managed to make him realize that she was a person, a person _like him_, not just some tool to be manipulated – and that was more than anyone had ever been before. Not an obstacle or stepping stone. Not just another clone who was so easily swayed by his façade and so easily rocked to the core by his use of Unforgivable Curses. Riddle mused that, for one who was so obsessed with optimism, she was rather cynical, in a strange way...

Riddle was surprised to realize that he wanted her to be herself again. What had he done to her personality? That fiery Gryffindor spirit – where had it gone? These days she looked tired. These days she looked dead.

And Riddle was not entirely surprised to find that that did matter. Quite a lot. To him.


	16. Chapter 16

** Yup so. This is chapter sixteen.**

** Many thanks to:**

** MissImpossible, Nerys, licious461, I-Dream-In-Black-And-White, Free Again, WhiteTigerXOXO, sexy-jess, Owl-songs, TheEllenator, ilikebluepineapples, Texan Insomniac, iamweasleyfred, sweet-tang-honney, madluv, Kenya Darcey, Anna on the Horizon, Kitsune, RisottonoCheese, Gonewiththerain09, The-Konoha-Shadow, bingbing196, magtaria, BooklvrAnnie, Scarlett, Senko Ryu, psalmofsummer, SanityOverload, low, f4vivian, xXx-ReBeCcA-xXx, Vinwin, Serpent in Red, Magentasouth, Taylah, PintoNess, and ClaireReno!**

* * *

Hermione had been to visit Mungo and Jared in the evening, around five o'clock, and they had told her they were starting some open surgery pretty soon to sort out the stomach and intestines, since the damage to those could not be fixed through blind out-of-body interference. Hermione was a bit nervous about seeing innards, so she thanked the pair hurriedly but said she had to go get ready.

"Oh, but by the way – are you two going to the Christmas Dance?" she asked with a small smile. Ever-polite. She had always been good at small talk. Mungo and Jared exchanged glances.

"Yeah," they said.

"Do you have dates?" she asked. There were a lot of people with dates this year, Albus had mused – more than usual.

"Nah," said Jared, and grinned. "Neither of us does. Well..." He paused and his mouth quirked a bit. "...not really, anyway."

"Oh, well," Hermione said, smiling. "I suppose I'll see you there?"

Mungo looked like he was restraining a scowl for some reason. "I suppose you will," his deep voice said.

Hermione left.

Mungo frowned at Jared. "Did you really just say 'Well, not really'?"

Jared waved a hand absentmindedly. "Come on, Mungo, us showing up wearing matching dress robes is hardly incriminating. We're the Healers, for God's sake; it's how everyone here knows us. We're a matching set."

Mungo sighed. "I'm just worried there will be certain people who might have a bit of an issue about _us_."

"Well, then, they can fix their own damn broken bones," laughed Jared. Mungo chuckled and sat down on the bed next to Miranda.

"Okay, let's get started," he said, and whipped out his wand.

xXxXxXxXx

Hermione removed herself from the Prefects' Bathroom, wrapped in a towel, and hurried back to the dormitory, ignoring some questioning looks. The Sleekeazy was working well, which was good, as she'd had to use three bottles, as usual – her hair was hanging limp and shimmering, like someone else's hair had been transplanted onto her head.

Mina wasn't in the dormitory. Hermione recalled how she'd promised to get ready with Mina and Miranda. Well, that had turned out abysmally... poor Miranda, lying in the Infirmary, getting her belly sliced open even as Hermione twirled her hair, drying it and curling it painstaking piece by piece.

She glanced over at the bed. Catalina Lightfoot had left her dress there in a brown bag. Hermione hadn't requested anything specific, and was sort of interested to see what Catalina had come up with, even though she was feeling sort of dispassionate about this entire dance. She probably wouldn't dance with anyone, anyway, would probably just sit there and be reminded terribly of the Yule Ball...

Hermione shot a Vanisher at the bag as she held her hair up, so that she could see the dress.

She had an audible intake of breath and dropped her hair. The dress was... was stunning.

Hermione could nearly understand how someone could be a famous Domestic Witch, now, if she made dresses like this for a living. The strapless dress was a pale gold, almost beige, probably ending around the knees, with a complicated twist-like knot at one hip which curled the fabric up into a gorgeous swirl as it approached the bust, and just at the top left, there was a tiny red rose embellishment. Gryffindor colors. And, though Hermione hadn't asked, Catalina had left a box with some low golden heels, too, simple shoes that had a single gold rim around them to contain the feet, and then intricate wired filigree all over the top. They were only perhaps an inch and a half tall, which, Hermione mused, was absolutely perfect. She had never liked walking in high heels.

Hermione shook her head in admiration of Catalina's handiwork. This was an absolutely phenomenal piece of work, as admirable as any spell. Hermione made a mental note not to discriminate so much against domestically talented girls. Just because they liked to cook, or clean, or make clothes, it didn't make them any less powerful – it just gave them their own interests. Hermione chided her own closed-mindedness and went back to her hair, which took a further forty-five minutes to complete.

Makeup, Hermione had always thought, was silly and rather counterintuitive – after all, why was it good to look pretty if you didn't look like yourself? – but there was something to be said for the way just a smear of lipstick and a smudge of liner around her eyes could balance out her features, how a tint of rose blush could bring out the shape of her face and make her feel just a little more poised and confident. Especially when, for the past couple of days, she had felt disgustingly weak. Nearly fragile, as if she could break if she fell, as emotionally unstable as she ever had been while she had been here.

She donned the dress.

And, yes, there it was – as she looked in the mirror, feeling completely unlike herself, allowing herself to feel attractive and slim and graceful, she felt like she was about to walk out to go meet Viktor Krum, and would see the absolute shock on Harry and Ron's faces...

She sat down gently on the bed. It hurt less than she had anticipated, probably because that was a good memory, a memory that was kind to remember, the first night she had felt beautiful in her life.

Hermione shook her head a little and stood back up, slipping her shoes onto her feet. It was time to go down to the Great Hall, which had been closed all day for the Decorating Committee to do work, resulting in everyone having to go down to the Kitchens for food. R.J. would have been in that Decorating Committee. R.J. would have been walking her into the ball. He would have been smiling kindly and somehow making everything feel okay. But no – Hermione was alone.

She let out a breath, letting all her troubles flow away with that breath. She was going to go and have a positively lovely evening. She would be happy. She would be gracious. She would be elegant.

Everyone else was already downstairs, so the common room was empty, as were the halls. Hermione heard the echo of distinguished music as she approached the Great Hall.

The doors were wide. They looked different, like they were carved out of ebony, or some darkest wood. Hermione walked into the room and drew in a sharp breath. They had completely changed the Great Hall. It looked like an old-fashioned ballroom, billowing dark curtains covering stately windows with white blinds, beautiful chandeliers fifty feet overhead, and small white covered tables dotting the outskirts. Everything was sunk twenty feet into the ground so that as one entered they would go down sweeping steps covered in red. The proportions of the room – Hermione didn't even know the spell they could have used; presumably the same type as one would use on a Wizard's tent – were completely different; it was far larger, far squarer, and at the very back there were two other huge doors that were thrown open wide to lead into a strange sort of indoor garden. Hermione was reminded intensely of Firenze's classroom.

Hermione descended the steps. The floor in the middle was already filled with dancing couples, all waltzing slowly to the music of an invisible orchestra.

She let out a half-laugh that was lost in the music as she observed the dance floor. On the poster invitations, it had said 'costumes are encouraged'. Far too much of the student population had taken that seriously. Hermione could see some outrageous costumes in the crowd; one person had donned a full-body Gryffindor lion outfit. She could spot a couple people dressed as princesses, some animals, some characters from famous Wizard fiction. She walked down the endless steps, pulling at the side of her dress awkwardly. There were about as many people on the floor as off.

Her eyes were drawn to Araminta Meliflua, who seemed to be dressed up as some sort of crystal. Her dress was almost blinding to look at, even in the dimly lit room, every facet of it reflecting with a shine the white material under it, and she looked very pretty in the soft light. Hermione grinned as she saw Barda next to Araminta – he was dressed as a large turnip. And there were the Marque twins, dressed as the sun and moon, and Catalina, a ballerina. Right at the side of the dance floor, swaying gently, were Mina and Godric. Mina's hair was pulled up into a mass, the gorgeous black ringlets cascading over her shoulders, her one-strapped dress dark teal-grey. Godric's dress robes were a dark, quiet maroon that made his hair look less like a fireball than usual, and they were gazing into each others' eyes, not even smiling or talking. Hermione swallowed and glanced away from them.

She hunted desperately for someone she might know off the dance floor. There were many people just wearing standard dress robes, of course, but one person caught her eye. He was standing off to the left, wearing a simple black tuxedo, looking like he'd known about the noir-reminiscent theme beforehand. He was facing away, but as he turned, Hermione was surprised to see that it was Tom Riddle. Why would he choose a Muggle outfit?

_You do not care. You do not care. You do not care._

She swallowed and looked at the steps she was descending, making sure not to trip, suddenly feeling like she needed to hide. Of course he would be here. He had asked her to come with him, Hermione remembered with a sickening swoop. Had he known, even then, that he was going to do this to her?

She walked quickly to the opposite side of the dance floor, immensely relieved to see Jared and Mungo standing next to each other, chatting jovially.

"Hey, you two!" she hailed, injecting energy and cheer into her tone, walking up. They turned and gave her twin smiles.

"You look fantastic, Hermione," said Jared.

"Just what I was going to say," Mungo agreed.

"And you two look completely ridiculous," Hermione laughed. They were both wearing dress robes which were a ludicrous shade of brightest aqua, with Healer symbols and designs all over them.

"Why, thank you," Pippin said proudly, looking down at his outfit. "We worked hard on these."

Mungo rolled his eyes. "Quote, we, unquote, did no such thing. Melia Trueblood did all the work."

Hermione's eyes found Melia Trueblood. She was dancing with a very handsome Ravenclaw boy, looking tragically beautiful in a white hoop skirt. "She's a phenomenal event planner," Hermione commented.

"She always is," Mungo said.

Hermione cast a glance back towards the stairs and her breath caught in her throat.

Tom Riddle was walking towards her.

"I'll see you two later," Hermione said, and hurried towards the back of the room. She was nearly at the back of the dance floor when a hand shot out of nowhere and grabbed her forearm. Hermione barely restrained a yell of fright, her heart jumping embarrassingly, and she glanced back to see who it was.

"Hermione!" said a voice. Abraxas Malfoy sidled out of the crowd. "You look stunning."

"Thank you, Abraxas," said Hermione, finding it difficult to focus on Malfoy as Riddle's tall figure made itself a dim silhouette in her peripherals.

"Actually – how about a dance?" Abraxas asked with a grin, holding out a big hand. Hermione raised her eyebrows in surprise.

That was a good idea – _he_ could hardly follow her onto the dance floor. "Yeah, sure," she said.

Abraxas was wearing fairly simple dress robes, looking casual and collected as usual. "So," he said with a frown, "I haven't seen much of you lately." He placed one hand on her waist. Hermione nearly jumped – it had been so long since she had any opportunity to dance with a boy. She took his other hand hesitantly.

"Er, no," Hermione said. "I've... well, I've been sort of... preoccupied."

Abraxas raised an eyebrow. That was interesting, because Riddle hadn't called a meeting in an entire week, leaving the group to wonder what the hell was wrong with him. After the last meeting, which had been utterly horrific for every one of his followers, he hadn't come out of his room, much, either – and when Abraxas had tentatively asked him why, the boy had just quietly said he had been 'preoccupied' and gone back to watching Hermione.

"Oh?" Abraxas said. "So has Riddle. It's been really strange."

He thought he saw Hermione's face blanche, though it was not in fright. It was in some remembered emotion, gone too quickly to identify. "Do tell," she said quietly.

Abraxas studied Hermione's expression. She looked absolutely breathtaking, actually, if only because of the stark contrast between this and her usual appearance – but beneath that thin layer of makeup, her eyes were sort of reddened around the edges, and her mouth was limp, like she was tired. "He hasn't come out of his room much," said Abraxas, "and hasn't really been talking to anyone. We're all sort of worried about him – you wouldn't happen to know... anything about...?"

Then he distinctly saw her swallow, and she looked away from him. "I haven't spoken to Riddle in a week," she said.

There was silence. They danced, and as the song finished, Abraxas said, "Fancy going outdoors?"

Hermione nodded, looking quickly back over her shoulder, as if checking something.

The pair walked into the outdoor room. The quiet rush of bubbling fountains was soothing, and the people out here were relatively silent. Hermione, too, was quiet, looking up at the fabricated sky above, which was a dusky purple of falsified twilight. She didn't seem to be much like herself at all tonight, though admittedly, it had been a while since Abraxas had last spoken with her.

"Listen, Hermione," Abraxas said in a low voice, knowing very well that he could suffer torture for saying these words, "I've got to ask. I'm sorry. But – but did Riddle... do anything to you?"

Her head snapped back around to him, and Abraxas suddenly felt afraid. The look on her face was nearly ominous, completely wide-eyed, her lips slightly open. "Why would you say that?"

"I... he can be a bit... capricious, at times, and he's been acting a little... well, we just – we hoped you were okay."

A genuine smile curled Hermione's lip for the first time in a while. Abraxas really was a good sort. "Wait... 'we'?"

Abraxas cursed inwardly. The entire group had discussed at length, without Riddle there, Hermione's wellbeing. Herpo, Revelend, Vaisey, Taylor, Takahashi, and he – they had been fearful of what Riddle might have done to her, and what that might mean for them, and that fear was just worsening as Abraxas talked to the girl. She didn't seem like she was all... there. That snappy sarcasm she usually had, that serene glow, was completely absent.

"Well, Herpo, Revelend, and myself," Abraxas admitted. He didn't know if Granger knew the other three; it was safest not to mention them.

Hermione briefly considered telling Abraxas everything that had happened. Surely, he, out of everyone, would understand what she meant when she talked about Riddle?

But no, she would not risk revealing her past to Malfoy, because the more people who knew, the worse. She would smile – there, like that – and reassure him that Riddle probably had his reasons for acting strange and that she herself was just fine, just worried about her friend in the Infirmary.

There.

Easy.

"Oh. Well, that's good," sighed Malfoy, casting a furtive glance around. Hermione knew he was checking to make sure Riddle hadn't seen. Abraxas was risking a lot, asking her in the first place.

Hermione was glad – they seemed to have lost Riddle. In fact, as they walked back into the main ballroom, she saw someone leaving the Great Hall entirely... someone tall and slim, wearing a black tuxedo. She felt relieved, of course – but something twinged at her that she pushed aside.

Abraxas made his way back to his Slytherin friends, and Hermione went to sit at one of the tables, drinking some cold water. As she sat, she descended slowly back into misery, into memory, into hopeless recollection. Perhaps Firewhiskey would have been more appropriate.

xXxXxXxXx

Riddle fumed. He had lost her. She had been talking to someone – he hadn't seen the person's face – and then she had been whisked onto the dance floor and he had somehow managed to lose sight of her completely when the song ended. She had clearly been avoiding him, too.

But, Merlin, she looked... well, she looked gorgeous that night, like a dream of her rather than her actual human self. Just purely from aesthetically balanced features, of course. A scientific, subconscious reaction in the brain, nothing more. He couldn't restrain that type of acknowledgement, couldn't restrain the magnetism to every curve of her slender body –

Perhaps, if he left, she could relax, and then he would come back later and she wouldn't be thinking to avoid him. That seemed like the most... attractive option.

Riddle walked down to the Trophy Room, looking at all the dusty medals and plaques disinterestedly. Such a farce – just a collection of favorite students, nothing more.

He bounced some spells off of some of the less important plaques for a while, before deciding it had been long enough.

Riddle didn't know anything about the outfit he was wearing. A Hufflepuff witch called Dida Langley had been assigned the task of finding outfits for their dormitory, thanks to a request from Abraxas, and Riddle had donned the tuxedo without much thought. He had almost become used to Muggle-esque clothing, with the winter clothing of the last month.

But then – as she had looked at him wearing it – the first expression she had had towards him in a week. The first thing that had showed up on her face, something that was not just a blank stare. Mild surprise.

He entered the large, dark doors of the Great Hall and leaned on the banister idly, feeling a few female eyes lingering on him a little longer than necessary, but he didn't feel the desire to smirk, and he didn't even bother to marvel to himself at how similar the entire female species was, because all that came to him were Hermione's words – _not every girl is exactly the same, especially me – _and then his eyes found her, and Riddle's world stopped rotating for a heartbeat.

It was a slow song, a slow dance. Hermione was pressed to a boy in dress robes, her head gently tilted upwards to face him, her hands laced around his neck. And his white-blond head shone in the lights from the chandeliers, his hands on her small waist.

Something stuck in Riddle's throat. His jaw stiffened. She was dancing with Malfoy, but would not even see fit to speak to him? To _look_ at him? _Why does it matter; why does it matter – why does it _matter_?_

He thought he might have seen her eyes find him just as he turned away and stalked out of the Great Hall again, but nothing was really making sense to him right then as it always did, especially not this new feeling inside his chest. He was losing track of all these new emotions; he really should have started keeping some sort of list or something to keep everything in line.

Granger would have thought that hysterical. And pathetic.

If she would not even speak to him, perhaps the only thing he could do would be to find a way to speak to her without speaking.

He threw open his desk in his room with a furious _bang_, pulled out a piece of parchment, and, with impeccable, flowing script, he wrote _Hermione Granger_ on an envelope.

He placed the quill to parchment, swallowed, and lifted it again. What was there to say?

He started with the most simple... and then found that he could not stop writing. It took far longer than he had anticipated, actually, and was surprisingly difficult. Riddle felt, though, as if words on paper would be far more appropriate than in person, as he had never deceived her on paper, only with his voice. Perhaps this changed things a little.

He knew the Gryffindor password – actually, he knew every password to every locked door in the castle – and he climbed through the portrait hole into the tackily colored Gryffindor common room.

With a well-placed Confundus on the girls' stairs, so that they would not transform into that inconvenient slide thing, Riddle found Granger's dormitory.

He closed his eyes. This entire room smelled exactly like her, somehow, and it was a strong and obnoxious reminder. Riddle glanced over the beds. On one of the ones in the middle lay Hermione's wand, innocently. Riddle gently placed the envelope next to her wand and fled, feeling a sort of dread within him, as if he would know when she opened and read the letter, as if by leaving it there he had done something momentous, instead of just frankly explained why she was being irrational.

Well, he hadn't put it that way. And she wasn't really being irrational, after all. His deception had been grand, and probably quite startling. Obviously more than a little startling, given her reaction, given the way she had fled him and not even looked back. Never looked back.

Riddle's throat seized up again, and he turned to intellectual pursuits, striking her from his mind, or, rather, attempting to do so with relatively poor results.

xXxXxXxXx

Hermione left early. As the night wore on, she danced with several people, but they just ended up being subconsciously compared with Ron or Viktor. Or someone else. Which she supposed wasn't fair to them. Besides, the shoes were getting just a bit uncomfortable, and Hermione wouldn't call it an entirely unpleasant evening if she called it quits now. She'd spoken with Catalina Lightfoot, which had been undeniably refreshing, and found Albus in the outdoor room and joined him for a little while, and she'd danced for quite a while, too – not an unpleasant evening at all, in fact, despite the memories.

Riddle seeing her dancing with Abraxas had been terrifying. She had found herself looking at the steps, and he had just been standing there, watching, but as soon as she had seen that dark figure observing, he had turned on his heel and stormed away.

Hermione was terrified for Abraxas. It had been a risky evening for him, but she had faith that either Riddle would not curse him or that Malfoy was already used to it. She leaned towards the latter, though, with a bit of guilt and unease. It wasn't right that Abraxas should suffer because of her, suffer the worst torture of any torture in the world, _his_ torture.

She tried to ignore her thoughts as she walked up to her dormitory, instead counting the steps. Anything was better than still dwelling on _him_.

But she was tugged from her count as she sat lightly on her bed and discovered something sitting innocently next to her wand. How had that gotten there? It was like magic.

Hermione scowled at herself. _Like magic. Brilliant, Granger._

She was a bit disturbed at how much that voice in her head sounded like Tom Riddle.

Her eyes scanned the front of the envelope. It was in curious, curling script, and it read _Hermione Granger_.

She opened the letter tentatively and withdrew three sheets of parchment. Each was a full foot, and each was smothered with that beautiful calligraphic lettering, dark blue ink. Hermione's eyebrows soared.

Then her eyes found the signature at the very bottom, and her heart started to bang against her chest, and she felt disgust swell inside her, and she was so very close to just burning the letter without a further thought. So, so close.

But curiosity got the better of Hermione, and she began to read it, drawing her bed hangings shut so no one could bear witness to her weakness. It was pitch-black in there; she read by gentle wandlight, feeling like a child under the covers, hearing her breathing loud in the small space.

The letter read:

_Ms. Granger,_

_I feel it is inappropriate to address you as Hermione, here, for two reasons: The first is that you no longer seem to respond to your first name, although that may just be when it is from my lips. The second is that I feel I have managed to betray your trust, and thus it would be largely improper to call you by the name you asked me to use in confidence._

_It is with great regret that I write to you, for it signifies and exemplifies the utter defeat with which my every action has been met. Although I rarely have to try at all for things to go my way, I have found myself trying embarrassingly hard to engage you in conversation, or even to appeal to your very attention, but this has proved fruitless, for reasons with which I sympathize._

_Perhaps that is a bit of an exaggeration. I should not like to you to think that this letter's contents are insincere, so I shall simply express that if I have, in fact, ever felt sympathy, I feel it now for the hatred you must surely feel against me._

_Although usually I am secure in my beliefs and ideals, I was met with an unprecedented and surprising barrier as I encountered the Hermione Granger under the influence of the love potion: a moral dilemma. I found that she disturbed me immensely, and I could not seem to figure out why, until I realized that it was because she seemed to be only masquerading as you, without the intellect or strong character of your person, which was highly unsettling, as I had become so very accustomed to your quick wit and our pleasant banter._

_Thus, I found that I felt almost bad, looking at this not-Hermione Granger, and for that reason, I recalled the evening when you once told me: "There are things that are more important than just getting what you want." I spent several seconds mulling over the phrase, but, mulishly, I plowed through it, as the meaning was never immediately apparent to me. I pushed on towards what has been my goal for so long, Ms. Granger, and, I confess, doing so may have been a grave mistake._

_I understand, now, what the words mean. I understand that there are things that indeed are more important than a tactical goal, although it may not be immediately apparent. I understand that there are things that will remain and provoke thought long after a goal has been achieved. I have also come to understand that your presence in my life has managed to make itself one of those things, despite all rational thought, despite any logical reasoning, despite every plan I sought to employ against attachment, which I generally consider to be dangerous and foolhardy._

_When I used Legilimency on you, I expected simple schoolgirl memories, but I have been entirely unable to sleep because of what I saw in the recesses of your mind. I saw that I had gained great victories, but that I had suffered great defeats, and I saw that the victories may not have been worth the sacrifices._

_I understand now why you so vehemently shielded yourself from me. I thought it strange, irrational, at first – what could a simple Muggle-born girl have to hide from a seemingly kind, charming, intelligent boy like myself? – but I realize now that the only irrational circumstance in the situation was my dire underestimation of a fire in you that was never extinguished with your death. Your bravery and headstrong manner, which at times are a complete disadvantage, of course, and comically easy to manipulate, are yet admirable, and your suffering – your suffering at my hands – has caused me a certain amount of distress to imagine, especially the incidence of your death, which I did not have the misfortune to see._

_I cannot imagine the affliction that being in my presence while here must have been, and I cannot imagine the thoughts that are surely building in your head as you read these words. I also cannot quite understand how you managed to spend time with me, to use it on someone who has already managed to use you, to give your time here to someone who is more than slightly undeserving of anything else from you, as I have already taken much._

_Upon rereading the previous paragraph, I fear my histrionics may be seeping into the realm of ludicrous. I apologize and blame it on overexposure to over-sentimental Gryffindors._

_Yes; it was my goal to pretend to befriend you for the mere purpose of deceiving you as I have deceived few others. However, it was not my intention that I would actually feel a friendship form, or that I would begin to understand what a friendship entailed. It was not my goal to hurt you in any way, either; I forgot to add an ingredient to the potion that would have erased all memory of the four hours you were infatuated with me. I realize that this must be a blow to your pride, and to your dignity, and to your intelligence, but I pray that all three remain solid and intact, for if I have damaged any of them, I will be rather put off._

_Curiosity and jealousy ate at me when I met you. Surely you are aware of the fact that Tom Riddle should be bested by no one, and thus, Tom Riddle must always know more than everyone around him, and absolutely nothing should be kept from him. I was jealous at the time you arrived, jealous that you and not I knew my own future, my own past. I can nearly say that I wish now to have remained ignorant, for the things that I cannot forget, the things you unwillingly uncovered, have raised many questions which I have been utterly and entirely unable to answer._

_I find myself with the hope that my other self, back on earth, has not harmed your teenaged friends in any way. It seems illogical, that Lord Voldemort should stoop to the murder of teenagers. If that is what I have descended to – the mindless killing of children; such a waste of time – then I weep for my eventual death, because I hear the climate in the more distant reaches of hell is not altogether pleasant._

_I still do not know exactly how much you know about me. There are things that cannot be gleaned from Legilimency, especially with limited time, as I'm sure you already know. However, I hope you realize that I do have the ability to be sincere, although doubtless one of the chief thoughts in that brilliant mind of yours at this very second is that I wrote this letter because I am too cowardly to say this in real life. Perhaps you think I wrote this down because I could not say it aloud and look sincere. You are wrong, Ms. Granger, for once in your short existence, and I know you are wrong because I could say any and every one of these words to you right now and mean them entirely; I just have had no opportunity to do so._

_As for my looking sincere – well, you know that I very rarely look anything at all, besides perfectly collected, due to my impeccable self-control. Given your reaction whenever I happen to let unintended emotion surface on my face, I need not waste time describing to you how when I look at you, the way I look is not necessarily indicative of the way I feel._

_I don't feel that the following is an entirely appropriate tangent for the general subject of this letter, but it must be said: kissing you was one of the finer moments of my life._

_It's a bit embarrassing to admit, but, as is everything written on these sheets of parchment (I only really anticipated the use of one; I've outdone myself), it is true. It is also irrelevant, though, and if you want nothing to do with me in the manner of physical contact ever again, I will hereby fully respect your wishes; however, I must express that if you want nothing to do with me at all, I shall have to object. I have felt a severe deficiency of your presence in the last week, and I have hated to see you looking so dreadfully lackluster... no offense meant; at the ball you looked quite striking. Even the absence of your feeble sense of humor leaves an emptiness in my subconscious, which, admittedly, was unforeseen._

_The fervor with which you attacked me after you came to your senses was wholly understandable. Perhaps it would comfort you to know that I have bruises all over my legs? Your Cruciatus Curse was entirely unsatisfactory and needed a great deal of refinement, but I would have been very worried if it hadn't needed work, because it is not in your character to use such spells and I would not care to see them come from your wand again, or ever to hear them from your mouth._

_I would much rather prefer such amusing and unrealistic things as optimism, hope, et cetera, the things you so love to preach and the things I so love to contradict. You know, the things about which I completely lack comprehension? Surely you know – you've taught me most of what little I know about them, after all. My formative years were not entirely open to such notions, as you may have been able to guess, or as you may have known prior even to meeting me._

_While writing this letter, as is so frequent when I find my thoughts on you, I have been unable to concentrate, and it is now a most unsatisfactory length, although I could continue, I'm sure, for hours, and miles, and sheet after sheet. These hopeless words – and this, perhaps, may be a tautology, for my words to you have seemed increasingly hopeless in the last week – are nothing more and nothing less than the apology which has been so long foregone, the apology which I now feel you deserved from the moment you arrived in this world, but the one I so selfishly denied in my temporary ignorance._

_You once said that you had faith in me. I know that this faith has been disrespected, but I beg you to see whether you can bring yourself to be the Healer of that dying man who needs your help, whether you can bring yourself to forgive the most undeserving of brilliant and misunderstood orphans. I am accustomed to getting what I want, and it is for this reason, and for your sake, that I beg you to respond, regardless of your sure disapproval for my continued existence._

_If you do not see fit to reply, with words or with correspondence, then just know that I am sorry, Hermione – sorry as I don't think I have ever been before._

_Tom Riddle_

Hermione read the letter seven times.

Then she read it again.

Then she cried, furious at herself for doing so.

It was so unfair, that she should walk into this dormitory and this letter should be sitting there, waiting for her to read it, waiting to suck her into its depths. Completely, utterly, totally unfair. Hermione swallowed a miserable lump in her throat and shoved the letter back into its envelope. She then stuffed the envelope under her pillow and flipped over, burying her face into the pillow, clenching her eyes shut, and wishing she weren't thinking about him – for surely that had been his intention. For her to waste more time on him. For her to spend more of her not-quite-life revolving around him.

How very like Tom Riddle the entire letter had been, from self-important commentary to a slight on Gryffindors to an unnecessarily expansive vocabulary, as if he aimed to impress her with the way he wrote. He sounded like he was from the nineteenth century. Yes, very like him indeed – was that a _threat_ in the last paragraph? "For your sake, I beg you to respond"? Hermione felt a twist of anger pull at her.

But he had said he could say any and every word aloud to her. Did that include the apology part? Hermione had never heard any major apology from his lips, not one that really mattered much. What would that be like?

A red blush inflamed her cheeks as she thought back to what he had wrote about the kiss. _One of the finer moments of my life._

This was _so unfair!_ How could he pull this on her? How could he just expect her to run to him with open arms, saying she forgave him for being the most deceptive, manipulative bastard ever to live? She couldn't do that to herself. The way she saw it, if she went back to Tom Riddle, she was asking for this to happen again. If she went back to his presence, it was like twisting in the knife and sticking in another next to it.

He hadn't said a single word about remorse, Hermione noted with slight disappointment. If it were all true, he might be on the road to remorse, but how could she trust him while he was still just a bunch of horcruxes loosely banded together? The only regret he mentioned was that he had to write the letter, for it meant that he hadn't been able to get her attention. Not a satisfactory regret at all.

Saying sorry, Hermione knew, was a very fickle beast. He could be sorry for her hurting, but not be sorry for what he did to hurt her, and that was what this sounded like – but even if he was sorry for her pain, that was a remarkable occasion in and of itself. She could scarcely believe it was written down on paper. Perhaps it was some sort of elaborate forgery?

She sniffled and chuckled to herself. Like anyone would go to that much trouble, making it sound exactly like Tom sounded – like _Riddle_ sounded. Not Tom at all. Not a humanized person, just a machine for deception, a Riddle, a conundrum...

Hermione felt that small twist of anger writhing its way into a sizable lump of rage. _Idiot, idiot, idiot._ Why was she wasting her time thinking about him? How was she _crying_ over this – over this letter that he'd surely sent her with the absolute conviction that she'd just reappear by his side, as if displaying even the tiniest bit of regret over her injured privacy was some sort of Summoning Charm? It wasn't. It couldn't fix things, couldn't seal up that gaping hole in what had _almost_ seemed like a non-malicious relationship. At least it had done one thing of merit: it seemed to have provided closure in Hermione's mind.

She couldn't trail back to him. Not the murderer. Not the traitor. Not now.

She couldn't do it.

xXxXxXxXx

Hermione woke in the morning, got dressed in her regular winter clothes – and she saw, at the foot of her bed, a wrapped gift.

It had "from Albus" on it. Hermione smiled – of course; it was Christmas. She unwrapped it and found a book, one with a dusty brown cover and a faded golden title: _RUNIC SPELLS._ Just the phrase sent shivers of delight down Hermione's spine. Runes were powerful – if she could learn spells using runes... that would be some wandwork to behold!

She gripped the book tight and went down to the Great Hall, greeting Albus with a grateful hug, most definitely not looking at the Slytherin table.

But Hermione couldn't help wondering if anyone had bothered to give Riddle a Christmas gift.

The day went by. Hermione did not say a word to him. At Christmas Dinner, she caught his eye, and bit her lip, but then she blinked and went back to her food.

Oh, _hell_, no, she could not be feeling guilty! No! She could not feel guilty about this. No, no, no, _no!_ She filled with rage, instead, a most satisfactory alternative. Anger was so much more logical than guilt. There was nothing bad about staying away from the biggest potential hurt of her life. It was like refusing to swim in a pool of bloodthirsty sharks. The sharks desperately wanted company, but did that mean one should _oblige_ them and dive in headfirst? _No, Hermione Granger, it does not mean that!_

Yet over the next three days, Hermione observed something quite shocking, and every time she realized it was happening, it made her eyes blink quickly in disbelief and her heart beat a little faster.

The first day after Christmas, she looked at Tom Riddle, and he looked... tired. There were bags under his eyes, light bags, but bags nonetheless.

The next day, the bags darkened, and his tie was loosely put on, and his shirt was rumpled under his black jacket.

The third day actually made Hermione stop and stare. His _hair_. It was tousled and messy and all over the place, like he hadn't had time to fix it.

On the whole, he looked like a complete mess, like he hadn't slept in a week. He had a glum note in his dark eyes and a foul humor about him that was visible from all the way over at the Gryffindor table. He wasn't even looking at her anymore; he didn't look at anyone. His ramrod-straight posture had turned into an inward slump, a dejected slouch, his arm resting on the table, his eyes absentmindedly staring at the untouched food on his plate like it was going to eat itself.

What was _wrong_ with him? Hermione frowned. He had to get it together. He was Tom Riddle. It was like some sort of twisted defeat, like he had lost some sort of a war against his appearance. But he didn't seem to care.

Hermione didn't understand. They hadn't even been that close. They had been friends, yes, but tentative friends, cautious friends, on that barrier between acquaintance and friendship. And now – now he still had all his followers around him. Surely he still felt some sense of duty to order them around or something? She couldn't have mattered that much to him. This _couldn't mean anything to him._

Why was he letting this one tiny thing get to him so completely? Didn't he have some sort of _plan _to focus on?

Hermione reread the letter that night.

She cried again.

His words could not sway her, she realized, and she should have felt triumph at that fact but she only felt miserable.

Injustice aside, vengeance aside, payback aside... If she could not find it in herself to forgive, how was she any better than he was?

xXxXxXxXx

Riddle observed himself in the mirror. He really did look terrible, but that was of little weight. Everyone knew who he was already, anyway; why did he have to keep reasserting it? As if any of his Slytherins cared how he dressed, as long as he wasn't mindlessly torturing them. He strode back into his room and slammed the door.

After he had dropped off the letter, he had been unable to sleep, and the entire proceeding day – Christmas, although Christmas was never really different from any other day for Tom – had been a torturous wait. The next night, he had had two hours of sleep. The night after had yielded one and a half.

He had called a meeting, told everyone that there was nothing new of consequence but that he had got what he needed from Hermi – from the Granger girl – like it was just that simple. But had he gotten what he really _wanted?_ No. No, he hadn't. He hadn't gotten what he wanted, and that enraged him so much that he took it out on every single one of the other boys, wishing their faces were hers, but knowing that if he did this to her it would never help him get what he wanted. He considered Abraxas, dancing with Herm – with _Granger_, and found himself angrier than he had been in quite a while. Quite a while. But it was more than anger – it was anger combined with the worst feeling in the world: hopelessness. And that – well, that made him dig himself deeper into his tortures, perhaps deeper than ever before, unfortunately for those six boys.

Riddle attempted to bury those childish thoughts of want. Was he still that seven-year-old boy who wanted that ball so badly that the boy to whom it belonged found himself falling unexpectedly? He was not. But then... then again... he _had_ gotten what he wanted, then, no matter that the boy had been hurt. Hurting him had turned up results. He'd never had to write the boy a damn three-page essay to attempt to convince him that the ball was rightfully his.

This wasn't the same, though, and Tom knew that. If he were just to walk up to H – to Granger and torture her until she broke, assuming that would ever happen – she wouldn't be the same. And he wanted her to be the _same_. He wanted things to be how they had been, a break from the tedium of this world, an intellectual focal point, a point of quiet interest, a point of unintentional relaxation.

Tom wondered whether he had ever really felt friendship towards her, or whether that feeling he'd used to get upon seeing her had been because of another open opportunity to deceive her. The latter seemed far more likely, but he'd had that feeling of exhilarating deception a million times before, and the feeling with He – with Granger hadn't been the same. Although it had definitely been that familiar feeling at first, after a while, it had faded into something else entirely.

He stretched out his lean body in the sofa, refusing to acknowledge to himself that he was even dedicating his thought process to this entirely unknown feeling, rather than doing anything productive. His dark eyes stared into the fire.

It had been such a damn well-written letter, too. Very formulaic in its progression, very... heartfelt in its manner.

Nothing.

Riddle halfheartedly shoved at his hair, feeling only mildly annoyed, but it wouldn't fall back into place. It was irreparably messy. He almost liked it.

_Hermione._

He didn't think he would ever say the name again.


	17. Chapter 17

Albus sighed, "Hermione, I really don't feel inclined to show up."

"I don't want to go alone; it's incredibly awkward. Please, Albus? It really isn't that bad, and if someone challenges you, I'll cut in. For New Year's?" _For his birthday, to distract me from thinking about him?_

He ran a hand through his wiry hair. "What is the appeal in Dueling Club for you, dear?"

Hermione shrugged. "I don't know. I like the idea of a controlled environment for magical competition. And it's not like Mungo and Jared can't handle anything that comes their way."

Albus's eyes wandered up to the ceiling. "Fine, Hermione. I will accompany you, but only because you insist."

"Thank you!" sighed Hermione in relief. Dueling Club was one of the rare times she could get her mind off herself these days, and she had already shown up alone twice, and the looks she had gotten when she walked in... as if she had no friends at all.

Which, of course, wasn't true – she had Albus. And Miranda... sort of. And even Abraxas, though she hadn't really had many chances to talk to him, not without being scared that Riddle would see.

She'd spoken to Abraxas only twice since the dance, and he had seemed uneasy about speaking with her, which led Hermione to believe that something bad might have happened. The thought was not a comfortable one, and when Hermione spoke with Abraxas, she made sure that it was out of the sight of Riddle – just in case.

As for her other friends, Albus was being his usual distant self, and Miranda was still healing. She had struck up a friendship with Catalina Lightfoot. The Seeker had managed to convince Hermione to play Exploding Snap with her, a feat in itself, and Hermione had found herself enjoying the company immensely. Jared and Mungo's slight lingering unease over her supposedly casting a Dark curse on Riddle had seemed to fade all of a sudden, for some weird reason, and they were now as cheerful to her as they had ever been. Hermione wondered why, but she wasn't complaining. She really did like the Healers a lot, and they were now rescued from the clutches of petty small talk.

As for Mina and Godric... well, they were in a land all their own. Whenever she looked over at them, they looked blissfully happy. Incredibly happy. The entire school knew them as the perfect couple, made for each other, who had taken far, far too long to be together – and Hermione found that she somehow did not resent the fact that they had left her alone. They must have had their reasons for doing so, though what those reasons were, Hermione couldn't imagine.

She wouldn't exactly have been the greatest friend those days, anyway, what with her own constant mood swings and random detachment from conversations, so it was probably to their advantage that they had their own little perfect island of Mina-and-Godric-ness that could not be interrupted by Hermione's Riddle-influenced capriciousness.

Riddle seemed to have bottomed out. His appearance had not improved. He had not snapped back into his former self. Hermione had observed Araminta Meliflua running her hand through his hair with a look of concern, and he had just looked at the girl and sighed, not even politely faking interest and conversation as was the norm.

That entirely illogical feeling of guilt had not faded. If he was genuinely affected by Hermione not being in his life... but then Hermione always shook her head and reminded herself firmly that, first of all, he was a master of deception, so the authenticity of anything he ever did was to be more than questioned, and, second of all, she owed him less than nothing. Hermione wondered if he would be at Dueling Club that day, or if he would skip it for his birthday. The last day of the year. At lunch, he hadn't looked any better, regardless of birthday – positively wan, with flyaway hair and a distant look in those dark eyes.

Hermione blew at her hair absentmindedly, and found herself wondering what would happen if she gave him a chance. Perhaps just one chance... after all, it didn't seem like he _needed_ to wring anything else out of her, as he already had wrung everything that could be wrung. The only thing he hadn't seen was her death, and Hermione couldn't see why he would care about that at all, as it had no effect on his future.

It was his birthday... perhaps the day could see a hesitant start at reconciliation? If he truly had no motive for a reconnection, it seemed unlikely that she could be hurt by associating with him. The absolute repulsion she'd felt had faded, as had the misery, and now she only felt indifference. If it was legitimately upsetting him not to be around her – and Hermione wondered at that, for it didn't seem quite logical to her that the Dark Lord could feel that sort of thing – then surely there could be no harm in a hesitant acquaintance.

She trusted herself to be able to sense any manipulation this time – she would be wary when she spoke with him, of course... She would make it clear that they were speaking on her terms, make it clear that she was not coming back to him because of anything he'd tried or done. It would be purely for the sake of research. Research on what he might possibly want.

Since Hermione's depressive post-manipulation episode had ended, she had found herself quite disinterested with most things. She was still terrified of the idea of being tossed back into that Hogwarts from her memory, so she hadn't been able to bring herself to look at her notes or at Caeziten's book for a long while now. She'd been practicing some defensive magics, exploring the castle – but the one thing that reliably managed to really _interest_ her was Tom Riddle, and she resented him for that fact, but it was true.

His letter lived under her pillow. She had slept with it there the first couple of nights without thinking about it, and then when she had moved it, she hadn't been able to sleep, which was stupid, and there didn't even seem to be a reason, but she had ended up putting it back, and it had fixed the problem. Hermione stubbornly refused to read it anymore, refused to acknowledge that she kept his apology under her pillow with her _wand_, as if they were of equal importance.

Albus stretched and yawned. "Well, if we're going to go, I suppose we should go," he said. "We are already late, after all."

"You know whose fault that is," Hermione chided, and stood up. "One moment; my wand's still in my dormitory."

She walked up the stairs and rummaged under her pillow for her wand, ignoring that rustle of paper that accompanied the movement and the skip of a single heartbeat as her hand brushed the familiar parchment.

Hermione and Albus walked down to the Great Hall. "I don't know... I've been considering challenging DeLisle Andra," said Hermione. "It's been a while since I exercised my dueling, and she's really brilliant—"

Albus frowned. Hermione fell silent. They stopped about ten feet from the door to the Great Hall.

It didn't sound like just any old duel. It was _loud_ in there. It wasn't often that the crowd got restless and started yelling, but it sounded like that now. Who was dueling? What was it, Godric and DeLisle or something?

They approached the door. Hermione's eyes widened in horror. The raised dais in the center of the floor was empty, and it was chipped and smashed. Rock dust clouded the air. Spells shot in all directions, and people screamed curses and ran for cover. It was not a duel – this was a legitimate _battle_, the likes of which Hermione hadn't seen in quite a while.

Albus looked dumbstruck. Hermione said sharply, "Albus, you'd better go tell Mungo and Jared that they should expect quite a few more patients than usual." He didn't need telling twice. He scarpered.

Hermione hurried into the room – or, rather, the fray. She wondered what had started the fight, or, rather, _who_ had started the fight. Just then, the doors to the Great Hall slammed shut with a mighty thud as a curse smacked into them. She turned and tried Alohomora, but it didn't do anything. Hermione was intensely and unpleasantly reminded of those huge chains bound across the doors, back then... not letting anyone inside to witness what surely must have been some sort of detailed torture chamber, one into which Hermione could have sworn she'd seen Bill Weasley dragged...

Hermione dropped flat to the floor as a whistling jet of white light hissed by and cracked into the stone wall behind her. She drew her wand and scrambled back to her feet. About ten feet to her left, DeLisle Andra crouched behind a huge stone barrier, her face contorted in rage. She shot spells like bullets at Melia Trueblood, who held her ground near the dais in the middle of the room.

Hermione conjured a thick, rubbery, bluish shield through which she could observe without worrying about most hexes. Over in the corner were Revelend and Herpo; where was Abraxas? Godric had made a sort of perpendicular wall out of the windowsill, and he and Mina had their backs against it, gritting their teeth and firing curse after curse at – there, yes. Abraxas and Riddle, also near the middle of the room, and Riddle was looking cool and collected as he returned every single spell that was aimed at him, not adding any of his own to the foray. _Considerate of him._

Hermione's eyes were drawn to someone – it looked like Andre Taylor, though Hermione couldn't tell. He was turned away from her, sobbing, on his knees, clutching at his face, and Kenji Takahashi was standing next to him, screaming obscenities at a group of Gryffindor boys. Hermione swallowed. This was like a bad dream.

Then Eliot Vaisey raised his hand, his wand held firm in it, and there was a tremendous _bang_ and every single torch exploded and then the room was absolutely dark.

Screams erupted from all around the room. The only lights were those of whizzing jets of spells that rocketed everywhere. Hermione fell to her knees, knowing from experience that it was safer closer to the ground, and safer the more contact you had with what you _knew_ was there.

Every so often, a silhouette lurched uncomfortably close to her, and Hermione crawled away, her heart beating fast. Her hands were balled into fists out of instinct; it was safer for the fingers.

The spells flying by were actually dangerous. Hermione's mind reeled with the question: _What happened to start this fight?_

A red jet of light whizzed by, and Hermione sent a Petrificus Totalus back in the direction of the caster. The more people who were disabled, the better, before things started to get _really_ nasty.

Hermione's head knocked into the stone dais with a clunk. In the loud, sweaty, terrified atmosphere, her cursing went unnoticed. She could hear the gasps of so many people, the yells of so many others, all at once –

A wild green jet of light smashed into someone who Hermione hadn't realized was sitting two feet from her, huddled into a tiny ball. The person screamed and keeled over, panting in utter pain. Hermione cast Lumos frantically and checked on who it was.

Catalina Lightfoot clenched at her right arm, a tear dripping from her eye. "Oh, dear Merlin," she sobbed. "I – I think -"

"Hold on," panted Hermione. "Here, let me see that – one moment, let me get your robes out of the way..."

She gently pulled back Catalina's robes, trying not to move her arm too much. It was clearly broken, bent right in the middle. Hermione pressed gently on one side of the broken bone, yielding a deafening scream from Catalina, and tapped the break with her wand. Catalina leaned back against the wall in relief as her bone clicked a little, adjusted, and then sealed itself back up. "Thank you," she whispered, and it was practically lost in the chaos.

"What the hell happened here?" Hermione asked.

"Some stupid House conflict," Catalina said. "Gryffindor and Slytherin, like you didn't see that coming, and then personal rivalries just started spitting out all over the place and now everyone's just mad at each other. Wonderful way to end the year."

Hermione rapped the stone dais with her wand, and a large hole appeared in it. "You don't do much offensive magic, right?"

"No," Catalina said. "I just come to Dueling Club to watch."

"Okay, hide in there, quick," Hermione said. "I'll make you a shield."

Catalina crawled into the hole, and Hermione traced her wand against the opening. A light green film appeared over it. Catalina gave her a thumbs up, and Hermione scrambled away, putting out her wandlight. It was attracting too much attention, and when people didn't even know who they were attacking anymore, attention was not a good thing to have.

Hermione felt a jolt of fear in her stomach. A jet of green light had just whizzed by her ear as she was on her hands and knees, and she remembered being in that dark Hogwarts and throwing herself out of the way like she would die, screaming in utter terror, screams like were echoing all around this pitch-black hall now.

A few feet away, a tangled knot of people worked together to fire blasts of spells out at random. A little further, in the opposite direction, two people were beating each other senseless with their _fists,_ bizarrely, even as passing spells lit up their ugly expressions. Hermione placed her back to the dais. There was a dark silhouette standing to her left who was very good at spellwork, and some people to the right who weren't so fantastic, screaming simple hexes at the top of their lungs.

Hermione suddenly felt terrified for Godric and Mina, which was a bit illogical, but she'd never really seen Mina use offensive magic, and if Godric was trying to do enough spellwork for the both of them, it could put him in serious danger too. A jet of yellow light whizzed by the people to her right just as a bright white disk collided with one of them. The boy's high voice screamed, and the yellow light illuminated black blood bursting out of his torso in a great splatter, as if it was ripping its way out to freedom.

Hermione retched as the smell of blood hit her, and she started scrambling to her left, trying to get away from the streams of dark liquid that were trickling slowly over the stones. The injured boy's friend, a girl, knelt down next to him and screamed, a vague cry of a name that sounded something like... Scott? Skip?

Then, even as panic took over every fiber of Hermione's body, someone saw fit to send a huge spell up to the ceiling, creating a miniature sun that cast insanely bright light all over the room, and Hermione relaxed. Then several things that were suddenly extremely visible happened very quickly.

The boy to Hermione's immediate left cast a spell over towards the door, and she turned to him, swallowing her pride at long last, her eyes scanning his face.

In the momentary lull immediately after his spell, Hermione said, very quietly, "You _would_ celebrate your birthday with this."

A midnight-black, ricocheting curse issued from the end of Araminta Meliflua's wand.

A dangerous-looking, spinning wheel of red light spat itself from the wand of some Ravenclaw boy.

The two spells collided at an angle.

His face turned to her as quickly as if she had just tried to shoot Avada Kedavra at him, and his wand hand dropped down by his side as a sequence of indecipherable emotions flickered across his face.

Then, before she could even open her mouth to yell a warning, the two mated spells smashed into his body, sending him flying like a doll through the dusty air to lie, motionless, on the ground.

And still the battle roared on. No one seemed to have noticed what had happened. No one seemed to have noticed that Tom Riddle's broken body was lying stock-still on the dusty floor. No one except Hermione. How was this possible? Where was Abraxas?

Hermione frantically looked around for his blond head, and found it over in the corner. He was kneeling over a collapsed Revelend, looking like he was having a breakdown, his wand shaking in his hand, an expression of agony on his face.

She couldn't seem to breathe in. All she could do was scramble gracelessly over to Riddle's body, flicking her wand, moving him back to the side of the dais where there was relative shelter.

His eyes were wide and staring, his face unmoving. Bizarrely, slowly, a trickle of bright red blood made its way from between his lips. Hermione realized that the front of his robes, where he had been hit by the spell – they were shredded, and soaking dark.

She put a hand tentatively on his robes, and when she drew her hand away it was red with his blood. Hermione sucked in a breath through her mouth. That colossal flash of light had made a massive impact. Hermione looked around again, like someone was suddenly going to appear, like someone was suddenly going to notice, but no one did. Tom Riddle was unconscious, dead-looking, not breathing, on his birthday, and _no one cared._

Hermione stared at his face, his brown eyes clearer in this comatose state than they had ever been in real life... She closed them with two trembling fingers, completely unnerved.

He needed to get to the infirmary. Mungo and Jared had to fix this, now, before that growing pool of blood got any bigger.

This hadn't been how it was supposed to have gone. She had distracted him for that one second... he would've kept his wand up, would have been able to block this, surely, if she hadn't said anything to him... _Of all the rotten luck in the world –_

Hermione staggered to her feet and flicked her wand. Riddle's body rose gently in front of her, and she sprinted to the huge doors of the Great Hall, his limp body speeding after her like some sick marionette.

_Okay, Hermione. Deep breath._

She had never tried to blast something as huge as the Great Hall doors before, but there was a first time for everything. She laid Riddle on the ground, took a step back, ducked a curse, and raised her wand, gathering power in it even as her hand trembled.

"CONFRINGO!" she yelled, and a colossal wave of power rolled out of the end of her wand, knocking her back a step. The doors flew open with an incredible _bang._ Even that didn't stop the battle.

Hermione flicked her wand again. Riddle's body floated in front of her, and she ran as fast as she could to the Infirmary, so fast she thought her heart would burst. This spell wasn't exactly reliable, and placed a light constriction on its occupant, so it was risky using it in the first place, but it was the only way, since he was so tall –

There was a huge trail of blood leading right through the school to where Hermione stood now, in the door of the Infirmary, wild-eyed and crazed. "Mungo!" she managed. "Jared!"

They ran over to her, gazing at the pooling blood beneath Riddle's levitating body with shock.

"Jesus Christ, Hermione, what is it with you and getting involved in the worst injuries we've ever – is that – is that..." Jared trailed off.

"Is that Tom Riddle?" asked Mungo quietly.

"Yes!" Hermione said. "Hurry, he needs a bed; he needs a -"

"I can't heal him," Mungo whispered.

Hermione's eyes fixed on him. "What do you mean, you can't -"

"We can't help Tom Riddle," murmured Jared, his eyes fixed on Riddle's face with a strangely cold look on his own face.

"What are you talking about?" Hermione asked in a low voice. "You have to. Look at him!"

Mungo sat on the bed and took a deep breath, as if he were about to unveil a great secret. "Hermione, we – we saw him using – using the Cruciatus Curse."

"Who cares?" Hermione said loudly, and twin expressions of shock filled Pippin and Mungo's faces. They hadn't been expecting that reaction from the Cruciatus information, that was for sure. "You have to heal him! It's your job!"

"No, it's not," Pippin said quietly, burying a hand in his light brown hair. "I'm sorry, Hermione, but someone that dangerous – it would be better for them not to wake up. It's practically our duty _not_ to heal him."

Cold shock filled Hermione's stomach. Two of the greatest Healers who had ever lived – and they were refusing to heal someone? "No," she said. "It's... it's your duty... to heal everyone, no matter what..." Her voice was faint. She privately reeled in disbelief, blood soaking into her shoes. She looked down at Riddle. He was as white as a sheet, and the trickle of blood from his mouth had turned into a trail down one of his cheeks, like a brand, like an unsightly scar. His closed eyes had no flicker of action behind them, his eyelashes stretching out like grass over a tombstone, every muscle completely devoid of movement.

They were just going to stand there, just going to stand there and let Riddle exist in a coma for the rest of his days? She'd had so much faith in them... She'd thought they were better than her, that nothing could get in the way of their helping someone. How could this be possible? How could this be real? How could the existence of this Tom Riddle, this strangely-conflicted, maybe-salvageable Tom Riddle, be over, just like that?

No. Rage seared through Hermione's veins. Damned if she was going to sit back and let this boy bleed everything he had onto the floor in front of her, especially after she'd been the reason he'd been hit!

Hermione remembered how she had once thought – what if there'd been someone back on Earth who had been there for Tom Riddle like she had? What a farce that had been. The first time he'd done something truly _bad_, even though she'd practically _expected_ it, she'd fled from him, ditched him, like everyone else must have always done. An angry feeling boiled in the pit of Hermione's stomach. "You have to help him!" she exploded.

Mungo blinked tiredly at her and stood. "No, Hermione," he said gently. "We can't. I... I can't."

With a bit of surprise, Hermione watched as Jared took Mungo's hand reassuringly. "It would be best if you took him away, now, Hermione," Pippin told her, not unkindly.

She just stared as they turned and walked back into the back room, past Miranda. Hermione's eyes fixed on Miranda. What if they had refused to heal Miranda just because she'd used one Unforgivable Curse? For all Mungo and Jared knew, that was all Riddle had ever done.

"Well," Hermione yelled after the two Healers, "if you won't help him, then – then I will!"

She realized with panic just how much blood there was on the floor. It was starting to curl around one of the metal bed legs on the stone floor.

Bed. That was what he needed.

Hermione hurried down to the seventh story, Riddle still floating corpse-like in front of her, still leaking thick blood in a steady dribble from his robes.

"Ernest Hemingway," Hermione said, and the door swung open. She tapped his doorknob – _December 31__st__ – _and turned left into his room.

She stopped, appalled. The Head Boy quarters looked like a different room entirely. The bed-curtains were half-open, and behind them, the bed was messy and unmade. Papers were strewn all over his desk and the floor surrounding it, and the fire's logs were scattered around the hearth as if someone had dropped them. Two sofa cushions lay on the ground, and clothes were all over the top of Riddle's dark wardrobe and the immediate floor area. Hermione stepped on a quill as she entered the room. Its ink feebly dripped from the tip and mixed with Riddle's blood.

Hermione shut the door and navigated Riddle to his bed, pulling the hangings wide and yanking the bedsheets down to the foot of the four-poster. She laid him on the white sheet, pulling a pillow under his head, and she conjured an armchair and sat down in it.

She swallowed in dread. Time to see the damage.

Her hands slowly opened his sodden robes, or what was still intact of them. His shirt, too, had been made light work of, and once-white rags were plastered randomly to his bloody torso. Hermione gagged desperately, and then again. She couldn't help it. His chest didn't even look like a chest – it looked like a raw piece of meat, ripped and torn right down the middle as if a wild animal had found him while he was sleeping. The entire top layer of skin, for the most part, just wasn't even _there_.

Hermione didn't know what to do. Her Healing knowledge was passable at best; she didn't even know where to _start _with this.

She could see a lung, could see his stomach, liver, and intestines, but they all had lacerations, and there was so much blood everywhere that Hermione could hardly make out what was what.

She left him lying there, sprinted to the library, and grabbed everything she could see on anatomy and Healing. There were a bunch of pictures of what the opened human torso was _supposed_ to look like, the heart pumping steadily, the lungs inflating and deflating regularly.

Hermione returned, sat, and stared defiantly at Riddle's mutilated body. Okay. Mungo had started with the nervous system on Miranda, but there wasn't enough skin to do that. Next, the lungs, and the diaphragm, that long, hard muscle right in the middle...

Hermione retched again as she leaned over the mangled boy in front of her. This wasn't going to be easy.

xXxXxXxXx

Riddle opened his eyes. The last thing he remembered was two mated jinxes – one had looked like a sloppy piece of Dark Magic; the other some very powerful and old curse –smashing into him, with just a second of what he could only describe as blinding pain. But he hadn't been looking at the casters – he'd been looking at _her_. He'd been reeling in shock at _her_ words, her quiet, sarcastic words, the fact that she had been there and words had been spoken from her mouth to his ears. And his concentration had been broken. Like an idiot, he'd lowered his wand, and then – then the pain...

But now... now he was back in his own bed, like it had been a dream or something, staring up at the dark green canopy overhead, his head on a soft white pillow, but there were no sheets over him for some reason...

His mouth opened slightly, and he sucked in a breath, and then he let out a loud 'ah' of shock. It hurt to breathe in.

"You're going to want not to breathe that deeply," said a tired voice from next to him. Riddle turned his head a little to the left. Next to his bed, in a plushy armchair, sat Hermione Granger. His mouth opened a bit wider in surprise.

"Why am I not in the Infirmary?" Riddle said, and was not happy to find that his voice was hardly more than a croak. "My voice -"

"Yes, your voice would be unaccustomed to use by this point," mused Hermione aloud. "As for why you're not in the Infirmary, well... well, apparently you were stupid enough to let Mungo and Jared see you use the Cruciatus Curse on someone, so they refused to heal you."

Riddle blinked sleepily. This didn't seem real, especially with her sitting there. Was this really happening? "Are people still fighting in the Great Hall?" he worked out, and he tried to move his hand to his throat to massage it, but there was a massive pain in his chest as he made the attempt, so he just let his arm flop limply to the side.

"That would be quite a feat," Hermione said with a raised eyebrow. "A week-long battle? Not overly likely."

Riddle could only stare. "A _week_? I've been unconscious for a week?"

"Yes. Thus, you know, the voice-not-working thing," Hermione said, surveying him idly. "Though that could just be the state of your lungs. I tried very hard, but I'm not really a Healer, so I don't know if -"

Riddle's sharp intake of breath, and subsequent inelegant whimper of pain, interrupted her. He had looked down and seen his torso, or what had used to be his torso. The skin was just... not there. It was like someone had made it invisible so he could see through to all his innards. Riddle was filled with disgust. How utterly revolting...

Wait. Had she said –

"Did you... did you just say that you 'tried very hard'? Have you been... have you been healing me?" he asked in a low voice, and surely the disbelief was plain on his face, for he couldn't seem to remember how to shield his emotions.

"Yes," she sighed, "although, as you can see, I've still got some work to do. Your skin's being very stubborn and not returning, and I've tried quite a few -"

"You healed me," Riddle repeated in utter bewilderment.

She raised her eyebrows. "I believe I've just said that, phrased numerous ways," she said acidly. Riddle turned back to the ceiling, numb confusion invading his every pore. Hadn't she already made her sentiments perfectly clear? After she had already received the letter and continued to ignore him? That was why he had let everything collapse, because he just hadn't felt the motivation anymore. To fix his hair, or even clean his room, although it was weirdly spotless now, somehow.

"And, er, did you clean my room?" he asked.

Hermione sighed. "Well, yes," she said, "because it was utterly revolting to spend so much time in something that was so pigsty-reminiscent—"

"So much time?"

Hermione's mouth snapped shut and she glared at him. "Are you _ever_ going to let me finish a sentence in peace?" she said.

"Probably not."

"Anyway – you have no idea how _hard_ it is to fix holes in lungs and ripped diaphragms and torn intestines and other such lovely things. So yes, I've been spending the larger part of my day sitting next to your bed," she said with a hint of exasperation. "At least it's given me something to do... Jared and Mungo are too busy with other people to spend time with me, Abraxas has been helping Revelend get back to his usual self, and Catalina's still under that Sleeping Jinx, so this is about the most interesting prospect I have. Though I must admit you are quite a bit more entertaining when you're conscious."

"I... would hope so," Riddle said dryly, and felt the side of his mouth curling into that usual smirk. He suddenly felt a lot more like himself than he had in a while, despite the fact that half of his chest was absent. "So, tell me, why am I not in intense pain right now?"

"I saw fit to give you a Numbing Solution, though if you try to move, it won't be able to stop that from hurting."

"And... why would you want to reduce my pain?"

She slumped back in her chair, that familiar expression of complete disbelief on her face. "What... why would I _not _want to?"

Riddle didn't say anything. He just blinked. Something cleared on her face.

"Oh. Right," she muttered.

There was a very long, very awkward silence in which Riddle surveyed the contents of his chest and Hermione stared at her knees.

"I got your letter," Hermione said, and her voice had changed. It was soft, now, nearly gentle.

Riddle felt like he was heating up a bit, a warm tingle in his every synapse that was still intact. A tinge of red colored his cheeks. "Oh."

"It was very... like you," were her next words, and Riddle turned his face again so he was looking at her.

"When one writes a letter, it tends to be like them," he said, because right then half-sarcasm and half-teasing was easier than saying anything real.

Hermione didn't look impressed. She scowled a little. "Perhaps I should leave and you can fix your own torso?" she suggested darkly, but there was a hint at humor buried in her voice. Riddle nearly sighed in relief – he didn't want to talk about the letter. Not really. But then she kept talking, and his heart sank. "I thought a lot about it," she said. "Um, about you."

Riddle felt like the bed under him had dropped away. If she had thought about it – about him – then why had she never spoken a single word to him? Why had she never made an indication that she cared at all? "I had hoped you would," he said carefully.

Hermione fidgeted and sat forward in the chair again. She looked at him and suddenly blushed. What was she thinking about? Then, she said, "I'm sorry I never talked to you about it."

"No – I never should have expected you to speak to me," Riddle muttered. It had been a grave tactical error not to factor in her stubbornness when he was considering what she might choose to do. Because of that blunder, he had somehow managed to invest himself emotionally in the situation.

"Well, yes, that's true," Hermione agreed, "but that doesn't make what I did any less immature. I apologize for having completely disregarded your feelings. Especially when you have so few of them to spare."

And then a small grin spread across her face, and Riddle let out a slow breath through his nose. That grin was like summer on a winter's day, like the sun finally coming out after a year of cloud.

"Nice to see you smiling again," he commented dryly.

"Of course it is," Hermione said. "It's never a good sign when your healer looks worried."

"I'm hungry," muttered Riddle, staring up at his canopy. "What do I do? This really is most inconvenient."

"If you'd rather be dead, sorry, but that's not going to be possible."

"That actually was not intended to be a slight on your Healing skills, Granger."

She sighed, and as he glanced back at her, she said, "What have I told you about the Granger thing? My name is Hermione."

Riddle blinked in silent comprehension. That was her forgiveness. In that statement, she validated everything he'd written to her and indicated that somehow, some way, she had managed to move past the incident of... he didn't know how long it had been, anymore. His perception of time was completely skewed. "Yes," he said. "I... yeah."

Hermione looked away again, seeming a bit uncomfortable. "In any case, I've been liquidating your food and force-feeding you, which you don't even have to start to tell me is entirely repulsive. Now that you can... well, _chew_, things should be much better. I've already gone to the Great Hall to get your lunch, actually."

She waved her hand at a silver plate that was lying on his bedside table, filled with food. Next to it was another that was already empty, a fork and knife lying on it.

"Do you just eat in my room?" Riddle asked a bit warily. "Don't your Gryffindor friends get a bit... well, jealous or something?"

"I..." She didn't seem to be able to finish. A miserable look wandered across Hermione's face, and Riddle abruptly remembered the events leading up to Mina and Godric's desertion. That Cruciatus had also been the one that Mungo and Pippin must have seen, Riddle mused. No; the events of that night had not been well-planned or executed in any way, shape, or form.

"How's your friend in the Infirmary doing?" asked Riddle quietly, removing the pressure from Hermione to answer his previous question. She seemed to brighten a bit.

"Miranda's actually doing quite well," Hermione said. "They're still reworking her blood vessels, of course, but overall it's going smoothly. She should be awake within the next week, which is a bit earlier than they had originally thought."

"If you don't mind me asking," said Riddle, "how have you managed to fix me so much faster than they're fixing her?"

Hermione smiled. "I have so much less work to do. You just got... sliced up a bit. Well, more than a bit, but... but Miranda – imagine all your veins and arteries bursting. That's a lot to handle. Quite a bit to rebuild, a lot more than just the cuts of some weird hybrid curse."

She turned around and picked up a tray, laying it on her knees. "Time for your medication session," she said. Riddle eyed the tray uncomfortably. Eight potion bottles sat on it, each one a different color, shape and size. "And before you ask, Riddle, yes, you have to drink every one of these every day."

He sighed in mock exasperation. "What a shame," he deadpanned. "I suppose I'll just have to drink the things that are healing my incredibly large wounds."

She shot him a glare. "Well, don't say I didn't warn you about them tasting foul," she snorted. She took out a cup, pouring a bit of the first potion into it. "Drink up."

Hermione observed him drinking potion after potion without complaint. She really had been spending a hell of a lot of time sitting in this room working on Riddle's wellbeing, which seemed traitorous to everything and everyone she could think of except maybe Riddle himself. He did seem appreciative, though, which was more than Hermione had dared to hope for. More than anything, he seemed surprised that she was there at all.

Then again, wouldn't she have been surprised if someone she'd thought detested her ended up healing her?

Actually, Riddle was probably dumbfounded by the very notion of her doing something nice for him and asking nothing in return. Saving his life and asking nothing in return. It probably hadn't even registered with him yet, the extremity of what she had done. She had brought him back from the dead, or whatever the peculiar coma version of death was here.

Working on Riddle's battered body was a strangely appealing alternative to everything else she could think of. Her notes on thread theory were sitting under her chair even as she sat there, but she didn't want to touch them. Her fear about returning had receded somewhat in the aftermath of the battle, because submerging herself in Healing had been a very therapeutic way not to think about other mutilations than the one in front of her. Admittedly, though, her research had flatlined. She had found what she needed; she was sure about that. She just didn't know what to _do_ with it. Too scared to experiment, but too determined to just drop it – Hermione found herself in a terrible limbo to be in.

She had spoken with Abraxas a lot over the last week, a lot about Riddle. In fact, they had positively picked apart his character, only to come to the general conclusion that neither of them ever knew what the hell was going on inside his head. Hermione had associated more with Abraxas, Revelend, and Herpo more than any other students in the entire school, because they were the only ones who dropped by to check on Riddle's condition. This was despite the fact that Revelend was still getting over the pain of the very Dark curse that had turned his legs backwards. Abraxas seemed like he was dragging the other two along a lot of the time, but Hermione thought that Riddle would secretly appreciate it when he found out.

The Infirmary had been full for a couple days after the battle; Mungo and Jared had said they'd never had so many people before. Godric put up announcements that Dueling Club had been put on hold until further notice. The vehemence of the battle had gotten to a lot of people; Hermione had seen a lot of random emotional episodes over the last couple days, even while she was just walking around the castle. Perhaps it had brought back peoples' memories about death.

Hermione looked back at Riddle, who was quietly surveying his own open chest. "So... may I eat now?" he asked, his eyes looking up at her with a sort of cautionary plea.

"Are you really asking me for permission?"

"No," he said, and an amused look found his expression. "I'm asking you to feed me, as I can't lift my arms."

Hermione's mouth opened in an 'o' of understanding. Of course – his ripped pectoral muscles were only just now starting to repair. In fact, the musculature was being a bit of an issue, because whatever the hybrid curse had done, it allowed her to heal his organs without much of a problem, but when it came to mending muscles back together and re-growing skin, the clutches of the curse completely prevented that from keeping. Hermione had knitted together half of his abdominal muscles, then finished the other half only to find that the first half had completely split apart again. The major veins and arteries that had been ripped apart had even managed to heal; it was just the stupid _muscles._ Hermione wondered if maybe that spinning red wheel had been some sort of curse to remove muscular control or something, which was why it wasn't working...

It was incredibly frustrating, and thus she had made a few potions that she thought might help give the curse a move on. There was no countercurse, of course, because the hybrid wasn't a real curses, but there were curses with vaguely similar symptoms that Hermione had found antidotes for. Her potionary efforts didn't seem to be hurting, either – along with the blood replenishment potion, which Hermione had found was helping stimulate Riddle's internal organ activity, she was giving him two antidotes, two immune boosters, and three different types of pain-numbers, and the fact that he had woken up at all was brilliant progress, let alone that a few strands of muscle were tentatively holding together now.

But no, it was definitely not safe for him to even attempt to pick something up at this stage. Hermione sighed. This was sure to be awkward.

She scooted her chair a little closer to the bedside and lifted the plate, putting it on the bed.

Hermione sliced up a potato with her knife, speared some on a fork, and lowered it cautiously to Riddle's mouth.

His eyes found hers, then, and neither of them looked away. "Wow," she said, as she glanced downwards uneasily, "I forgot exactly how little I missed our staring contests."

"I missed them," said Riddle in a small voice. "May I have some chicken?"

"Dear Merlin," Hermione said, "what on earth has being unconscious done to you? A polite request _and _something that could be misconstrued as nice, all in the same breath?"

A dark glare spread across Riddle's face then. "Much better," Hermione said, and placed some chicken to his waiting lips.

"I just don't feel as if I have the presence to order anyone around when I'm lying here with a big hole in my chest," Riddle mumbled, sounding like a child whose toys had been taken away.

"I'm sure if you tried you could still manage to scare someone or other," Hermione reassured.

"Yes, but it wouldn't be _you_, so it wouldn't be _fun_," said Riddle, and Hermione scowled at him. He still had the lingering touch of disbelief on his face, like at any second she would just stand up and leave. Hermione certainly felt more than a bit uncomfortable making her usual sarcastic comments, even though he didn't seem entirely opposed to them.

Albus knew nothing of Hermione healing Riddle, because Hermione knew he would completely disapprove. As a consequence, Hermione found herself without a single person to talk to in the entirety of Gryffindor, which was disturbing. Should she just go ahead and move all her things to the Slytherin quarters or something? What a ludicrous idea. She had just as much a Gryffindor spirit as ever... it just seemed that circumstance had dictated that no one in her own house should want to associate with her, except perhaps Catalina, who had somehow managed to get hit by _two_ Sleeping Jinxes at the same time. As of two days ago, she still hadn't woken up.

Hermione had considered talking to Godric and Mina, but the opportunity never seemed to present itself, and they never took the initiative. Also, Hermione assumed they wouldn't like the idea of her locking herself away with Riddle for nine hours of the day, even though that wasn't general knowledge. No one knew in Gryffindor, and only Abraxas, Herpo, and Revelend in Slytherin, although Riddle's disappearance from meals hadn't gone unnoticed. Abraxas had let it be known that he had been hit by a particularly bad Sleeping Jinx and was sleeping it off in his room, and nothing more.

Once Hermione had gotten used to the blood, the Healing had gone more smoothly. Every so often, there would be a flopping, limp end of a vein that would weakly hiss blood, and Hermione would have to restrain her gag reflex, but she had become almost accustomed to the terrible sight of Riddle's chest.

Hermione took out her wand, flipped open a book, and consulted a diagram. The tip of her wand wove a thin golden thread around a dark gray, dead-looking artery. Hermione bit her lip and spared a glance back at the book before directing her concentration fully to the golden thread. Slowly, bit by bit, the thread slid into the artery, breaking through the clotted blood, pulling out the accumulated scar tissue, and wrapping with a gentle golden glow around the outside. When the thread vanished, the artery was a healthy shade of dark red, and blood pulsed openly out of it. Hermione flipped a page and rotated her wand gently, and then with a flick, a sizzling white bolt jerked out of the end of her wand, and before her eyes, the tissue started to regenerate itself, copying what was already there. Hermione guided it back to its corresponding injury, her brow furrowed in rapt focus, and when it finally connected to another limp, dangling end, the pale new tissue quickly darkened with the transfer of blood. Hermione's expression cleared.

"You'd think there would be some more efficient way to do that," commented Riddle, and Hermione jumped. She had become fully used to the absolute silence of his room, the soporific crackle of the fire.

"Yes; I wish there were," said Hermione.

"And you've just been doing that all day for the last week?"

Hermione nodded, flipping a page and reading a section on the heart, although it was sort of irrelevant, because by all rights Riddle's heart should have stopped due to all of these cut veins and arteries and... well, cut everything.

Riddle stared down at his ripped midsection. Why was she spending so much time on it? It would have been one thing if she had tentatively agreed to stop ignoring him after what he'd done, but she had dived into the care of his body, pushing other things aside for his well-being. After what he'd done, it was nearly surreal. Even if he hadn't done anything bad, why should she donate so much time to the life of someone else when she had a perfectly intact life of her own?

Well, a relatively intact life of her own. There was something in her carefully controlled expression that told him she was not unaware of the disadvantages of spending all day in here, that she had more problems than she was letting show, as usual.

She frowned and reread something. "One moment," she said, and stood. "I'm going to get a book from my room."

He found that he couldn't even nod without pain shooting down to his abdomen. So he just gritted his teeth and said, "Okay," sending his most evil glare down at his own torso. This was the most inconvenient of all inconveniences that had ever managed to be inconvenient. Merlin, he couldn't even _roll over_. The most sort of movement he managed to be able to do was to rotate his legs a little out and in, wiggle his feet, and lightly move his fingers. He found, as he attempted to make a fist, that even that contracted his pectoral muscles and brought forth a hot burn of pain.

Riddle's eyes squeezed tight shut. This was abysmal. He hadn't thought that he could be hit by anything, _ever_ – especially not during _Dueling Club._ How utterly juvenile. How humiliating. If he ever found out who had sent those spells at him, there would be hell to pay, or something very similar.

xXxXxXxXx

The book had said something about Runic Spells. If they were, indeed, as powerful as Hermione theorized, then their capacity to heal would be incredible. She didn't know if she wanted to risk previously untested Runic casting abilities on Riddle, though, not after she'd invested so much time knitting him back together in the first place. But perhaps if there were something for beginners in Albus' book, which was lying under her bed... then she might try.

"Venomous Tentacula," she said, and the Fat Lady's portrait swung forward. Hermione clambered through, and then stopped. It was deadly silent inside, despite the fact that there were quite a lot of people inside. Hermione froze in place as she saw where everyone was looking.

Godric had his head buried under two sofa cushions. He was kneeling on the red carpet, and he was shaking furiously. And then, as Hermione watched, Godric drew a terrible, heaving breath. His knees gave way, and he sat down hard on the ground, wrapping his arms around his knees, burying his head in those arms. Hermione's mind spun with questions. What was wrong with him? What had happened?

Hermione ran to the stairs and sprinted up to the dormitory. Mina would know what to do. Hermione's hand shoved wide the dormitory door, but Mina wasn't inside. Hermione frowned, knelt, and grabbed her Runic spellbook from under her bed, but then she heard a hiccup and a long, shaking breath. Hermione straightened up and looked over at Mina's bed. There was someone standing behind her bedcurtains – Catalina Lightfoot. She was awake.

"Catalina?" Hermione said hesitantly, and she was filled with shock as she saw Catalina's face. Two fat tears were rolling down from her dark eyes. "Catalina, what's wrong?" Hermione asked, hurrying to her.

"It was h-ho-horrible," Catalina wailed.

"_What_ was horrible?" Hermione asked, her voice deadly quiet, her heart banging hard against her ribcage as if begging for release.

Catalina's eyes shone with apology as she gazed at Hermione. "You weren't there," she whispered. "You weren't there when it happened."

"When _what_ happened?"

"Godric and Mina were standing there, and – and – and his hands were on her shoulders, and she'd just made some stupid joke—"

Catalina let out a tremendous blubber, holding her hands up to shield Hermione's eyes from her wild face. "And," Catalina bawled, "she just sort of started getting hazy around the edges, sort of – of fuzzy, like – like – like she was just going to _melt -_" Catalina wiped her eyes and gave a mighty sniff. "I – I, I – and then – and then she just started getting pulled in at the sides, and little bits of her just started fading away, and Godric was yelling so loud..."

Hermione swayed. This couldn't be happening. This couldn't be happening.

"And then she got sort of see-through, and there was this, like a band of white light, and it was all curled up inside Mina in this big ball, but this one part of it was just stretching down through the floor, and then it was like she got _sucked_ downwards by it and it just pulled that ball right down into the ground and then she wasn't _there_ anymore... oh, Hermione," sobbed Catalina, and burst into fresh tears.

Hermione had forgotten how to breathe. Hermione had forgotten how to speak. Hermione had forgotten how to move, besides that swaying back-and-forth motion that was growing more and more unsteady as her feet melted into puddles. She could only stare at Catalina, who flipped herself over onto Mina's bed and screamed into the mattress.

It must have been ten minutes before any thought managed to make its way back into Hermione's mind, and then she turned slowly and stared at the door for a second before tottering back down to the Gryffindor common room.

The silence was still fully intact, though about half the people seemed to have streamed away. The people who were still there still seemed frozen in utter horror. Godric was burying Albus in a hug, sobbing helplessly into the thinner boy's shoulder, his usually-cheerful face screwed up into a red, contorted, miserable mask. His mouth was open in a silent scream.

Hermione stumbled through the portrait hole and leaned against the wall, the cool air of the hallway shocking her out of her stupor a bit. She slid down the wall until she was sitting, her legs straight out, her arms limp, her eyes staring at the stone wall across from her. Her book was still clenched in a nerveless hand.

Mina was gone. Just like that. Without a thought, without a goodbye, without anything. Hermione had heard this had only happened a few times before, moving on during the day... but the _way_ she had gone was not the bad part, it was that she _was_ gone, and Hermione had never had the chance to make up with her, to ask what it was that had made Mina so detached from her in the first place, and that chance was gone forever and ever.

Hermione let out a disbelieving sob, and tears rushed to her eyes. She let them drop, let them splash onto the stone with a quiet patter, let herself mourn without even a hint of resistance. She would have been there. She would have been able to tell Mina she was sorry... if she hadn't been with Tom Riddle.

Hermione's innards twisted up into a knot. _No matter what I choose, it's never right._ Even the right thing to do, the tentative forgiveness of someone who had hurt her, the healing of someone who couldn't get help from the Healers themselves... even that, apparently, was not enough for God to grant this one tiny thing to her, that she might be able to tell her once-best-friend-here _goodbye._ Was that so much to ask? Was it too much to ask that she might have realized she needed that book fifteen minutes earlier? Then she would have seen it happening, would have dropped everything and run to Mina's vanishing body and told her that she loved her and would miss her... so much...

A low moan worked itself from Hermione's throat, a pathetic, miserable noise.

Slowly, the tears stopped, unbidden. There wasn't anything left to cry. There wasn't anything left to cry about, things that hadn't happened, things she hadn't said, things that would always live inside her as wispy what-ifs, now, and nothing more.

* * *

**So, who wants to get their chest ripped open for their next birthday? I KNOW I DO! :D**

** All my love,**

** Speechwriter.**


	18. Chapter 18

** Keep in mind with this chapter especially that I am not writing sociopath!Tom, but rather !Tom. Kcool? There's a distinct dichotomy. I am part of the latter crowd.**

** With love, as always,**

** Speechwriter.**

* * *

Hermione trailed wearily back into Riddle's bedroom, the book held in her hand as if it weighed a hundred pounds. His eyes found her, and he frowned. "What's wrong?" She shook her head exhaustedly. "What's wrong?" he repeated.

She sat down, just looking at Riddle, and he just looked at her, confusion sliding more readily onto his face by the second. Hermione looked down at Dumbledore's book and then out the window. Everything seemed vaguely rehearsed, like someone was telling her to read a script for the thousandth time, like she had already done this before now, like she had already said the words, "Mina's gone," in a tiny voice that betrayed everything she had briefly considered concealing.

"No," said Riddle, and he genuinely seemed disbelieving, though Hermione couldn't imagine why. There wasn't even a hint of cruel sarcasm in that word, although neither was there sympathy, and Hermione stared down at her hands, wondering if those two small hands were really her hands at all... she felt detached. Detached from her own body. She couldn't do any healing in this state.

She whispered, "I can't work on you right now."

She halfheartedly conjured a cool, squashy layer of sealing gel that she placed over his torso, and then she pulled the sheets up over him, lifting each of his arms gently and putting them on top of the dark bedspread. Sitting back in her armchair, she placed her book under the chair and stared straight ahead hopelessly, every bit of vigor in her body streaming out through her wide eyes. She felt utterly crippled, like someone had knocked out her legs from beneath her and she was just lying on the ground, unable to get back up from the mud.

Then, suddenly, dead words from her lips, words without expression, words that were little more than a croak. "You'd think I'd be used to this by now."

His head turned to face her, his dark features creased with something that looked a little reminiscent of worry. "You will never get used to this."

Hermione swallowed. It wasn't mean, the way he said it, and it wasn't supposed to be mean, or kind, or anything. It was just true. "No," she said. "I won't."

"Only people like me could ever get used to it," Riddle added softly, "and I am happy to let you know that we are probably as different as two people can be."

"When have you ever lost anyone you cared about?" Hermione said. He hadn't cared about anyone he'd killed, not ever. Did he even know a hint at the feeling?

"Three weeks ago," he replied coolly.

Hermione felt like someone had just stepped on her chest, halting her breathing, and blood rushed to her face. "What – what?"

"You know exactly what I mean," Riddle said, "but right now we shouldn't be speaking about me."

"No, no, this is better," Hermione murmured. "When I'm talking about stuff I don't understand at least I'm forced to think." Her mind wrapped around the concept that he had just said he cared about her. There was a pause as she attempted to comprehend that.

"Of course," he mused aloud, his smooth voice low and innocent, "that was entirely my fault, so it's likely not applicable to your current situation."

Hermione swallowed and fixed her gaze on him. He wasn't looking at her. "No," she whispered. "It's not the same. I don't know how I can explain it." She paused and wondered if explaining it would even yield anything. Then she sighed, and said, "It's this feeling of wasted potential. Everything I could have done is over. Everything she could have done... is over. Everything our relationship ever could have become is _over._ And it was just as simple as that, like whoever decided to yank her out of this world didn't even care, like they just decided now would be fine and just took her away and changed _everything_."

Hermione's words got faster and faster and more frantic, and she couldn't stop the hysterical sob from building up behind them. "Sorry," she muttered, and shut her eyes. "But... with us – it's different. We can still change. Mina will never change in my mind ever again. She'll always be the same as when she left, always the same... she'll never have the chance to be anything different to anyone."

She swallowed. "I guess I'm just being silly, though."

"You're not being silly," said Riddle quietly. "You're being honest."

Hermione's hazel eyes found his inscrutable dark gaze for the millionth time, but she felt like it was new. Something about this boy, since the last time they talked, was different. She didn't know what it was, exactly, but it unsettled her. It changed everything she knew about his personality, which had been so little from the start. "You've changed."

"I've been changed," Riddle replied. "I've... I've become more self-aware."

Hermione closed her eyes. "More self-awareness is exactly what you _don't _need," she mumbled. "A little confusion would do you some good."

"Oh, rest assured, I've been confused," Riddle said quickly. "So confused, which is quite embarrassing to admit, but I suppose as you read the letter – you did... read all of it, didn't you?"

She let out a humorless laugh. "Sorry. I just – yes. Yes, I _definitely_ read all of it."

"Well, then, you should likely know that I've been subjected to emotions that I don't understand in the slightest," he replied, raising one serious brow at her, and Hermione was struck by that simple gesture, struck by how she had actually _missed_ seeing him do that, _missed_ seeing his handsome face look at her simply like he thought she understood him.

Riddle sighed, and then grimaced as a pain shot through his abdomen. _Not again,_ he thought helplessly. Hermione looked a bit worried, for a moment, but then her expression faded back into that miserable tiredness. Riddle thought for a second. "Actually, I briefly considered keeping a written list of feelings that completely mystify me, but I thought you would find that laughable, so I restrained myself."

Her mouth quivered and she broke into a smile. Riddle felt satisfaction fill his chest. He had meant to cheer her with that comment, seeing as she was taking the loss of her friend with such irrational melancholy. Another twinge of unresolved emotion struck him as he considered what she'd said about lost potential with Mina's relationship – wasn't it _his_ fault, after all, that the two girls hadn't been speaking? Though he hadn't intended that to happen – no, he hadn't planned for them to stay away from her, and he certainly hadn't wanted to add more misery to her plate by doing so. He hadn't even considered that they might desert her for him cursing Mina. That hadn't seemed logical, unless Godric and Mina had thought that Hermione wouldn't like to know.

Riddle frowned. Actually, that was something he hadn't asked himself yet. Why hadn't Godric and Mina just told her about the Cruciatus? They had wanted her to stay away from him; surely that was a perfect reason? Unless they thought she wouldn't believe them for some reason. No, that was a mystery. Riddle's expression cleared a bit as he shook the thought from his mind, and he looked back at Hermione. She was facing out the window, eyes closed, the curve of her face illuminated by the sunset, her eyelashes casting spindly shadows across her cheeks.

"Hermione," he said quietly, and she looked back at him, a nearly-surprised look on her face. He was about to go on, but said instead, "What?"

"Oh," she said, "it's nothing, just that – well, that's the first time you've used my name, I believe." She thought for a second. "Well, when I haven't been hysterically attempting to beat you to a bloody pulp, that is."

Riddle blinked. "Ah."

"But, er, what were you going to say?"

He wiggled his fingers on his right hand a bit. "I was going to ask if you could hand me my wand," he said.

"You think you can do magic in this state?" Hermione said disbelievingly.

"Watch me," he said confidently, and a smirk tugged at his mouth. She shook her head and leaned over him, placing his wand into his right hand. A cool rush of air, of her smell, flowed over him, and he found himself inhaling lightly, almost subconsciously. Then his fingers curled over his wand. He sighed with utter relief as he felt the familiar, cool wood under his hand, that power, that lovely, delicate feeling that he could do absolutely anything in the world...

His right forearm carefully lifted itself so that it was perpendicular to the bed, the weight resting on his elbow. Riddle watched with shielded eyes as his wrist twirled dexterously, the end of his wand nimbly flicking in immediate response, and a dark blue fire streamed into the fireplace and helped the dying flame back to life.

"I think I'm fine," he told Hermione, looking at her with the self-satisfied smirk more present than ever.

"You revolt me," she muttered, awe in her face. "That is entirely unfair."

He shrugged carelessly, and right after that shrug, hissed, "_Goddammit._"

"Language," Hermione said, a smirk of her own growing as Riddle let his wand drop onto the bed. But the pained look on his face didn't lessen, and her smirk died to be replaced with a look of concern.

Riddle's eyes watered. He looked at her, and that look of worry on her face unsettled him. "Are you all right?" she asked, scooting closer and snatching up her wand. His face creased in pain. The agony right above his breastbone was stabbing and not going away, but what bothered him more was that look on her face, because it was so apprehensive. It was just a little pain; why was she so flustered?

"Right in the middle," he managed to work out, and Hermione pulled down the sheets and removed the gel with a flick of her wand. Her gaze stuck right in the middle of his chest, but from this angle, Riddle couldn't see it himself, which was frustrating.

She lowered her wand to his chest, and Riddle shivered a little as he actually felt the smooth wand on top of his bared innards. Then, suddenly, it was hot. Burning hot. Then it felt like someone had pressed ice to it – and then the pain was gone. All gone. "There," he sighed, and his eyes closed in relief. Hermione re-conjured the gel, a chilly presence on his naked chest, and she pulled the covers back over him. Her hands were cool and felt nice as they lifted his bare arms above the covers.

She sat on the edge of the bed, now, and his body dipped towards the indentation where she had perched herself. "You're welcome," she said, an almost-amused look coming across her face as she turned her face to look at him.

"Thank you," he replied smoothly. Then he licked his lips and glanced from side to side. "Is there water?"

She held up her wand, and he opened his mouth a little. The silence was tenable, soft, gentle, as she slowly let water trickle from the air to fall between his waiting lips. "Thank you," he said, then, without prompting, and she replied,

"No problem."

She wasn't looking at him. "You should probably go and spend time with your Gryffindor friends," he said quietly. "This can't be easy for your house."

"Especially after R.J.," Hermione murmured, and a flash of hurt came across her face. Riddle remembered the mysterious, quiet, protective boy with a twinge of dislike – he had seemed like such a tall-dark-and-handsome archetype, and Hermione had seemed to like that.

Then again, Riddle mused, he himself was rather the tall-dark-and-handsome type, too, though it was sort of undermined by his inability to move anything more than his neck joint. Then he stopped. Why should he care what sort of person Hermione liked? That wasn't reasonable. If he was going to start being a part of an actual friendship, he had to stop being possessive, like she belonged to him, like she couldn't be friends with other boys.

Other _people._

Other _boys_? Where had that come from?

No matter. But he was so painfully used to people practically belonging to him, just like Slughorn had used to be back when Riddle had still attended Hogwarts. A sort of domineering, belonging feeling, like they had to swear allegiance to him... though that was probably because most people he spared a thought for had already pretty much sworn allegiance at this point. But Hermione would never stoop to that level, he supposed, and she seemed determined to keep things friendly, agreeable, like she was aiming to patch up what they'd had before.

"No one wants me there," she said idly, looking away from him, down to the foot of the bed, over at the warm fire. Riddle was filled with frustration that he couldn't just roll out of bed, pace around, go sit by that fire. How irritating.

"I bet Dumbledore does," he said, attempting with little success to keep the displeasure from his tone of voice. She surprised him with a sarcastic sort of mumble.

"No; Albus couldn't care less at this point."

At those words, Riddle felt a weirdly uplifting, victorious sense inside him. But that wasn't right – he wasn't trying to unseat her friendships anymore; why should it matter to him what she and Dumbledore had going on in their lives? But, "Why?", he asked, without knowing why he was asking in the first place.

"You always seem to ask me these questions," she pondered aloud, "and the answer always seems to be you_._"

She turned and looked at him, but she didn't seem to be trying to make him guilty. She didn't even look mad.

"But... I've been unconscious for a week," Riddle said. "How have I made him mad?"

"I just – I haven't really spoken to him about this, because he always sort of expressed that he would like me to keep a safe distance from you."

A bit of a resentful look came across his face, and Hermione's eyes softened. "Don't worry about it," she told him.

"I'm not worried," he shot back. "It's just, Albus Dumbledore... I – I..." He swallowed. "I suppose I owe him enough not to get mad over something small, having killed him."

His voice was quiet, and strange. Pensive. Hermione stared at him. How could he feel bad for having killed Dumbledore? She had thought that had been one of his goals since he and Dumbledore had started their stupid rift in Hogwarts days. "Yes," she said softly. "You do."

Riddle looked at her, his gaze strangely hollow. Hermione wondered if she was being unfair. After all, he hadn't killed Dumbledore – not even in real life, but especially not this Tom Riddle. Was it right for him to feel guilty, or whatever he could feel of guilt, about some crime he hadn't really committed?

Was it what was inside him, even now, that had made him kill Dumbledore, or was it how circumstances had progressed over time? Nature versus nurture – Hermione had read about it in the Philosophy section during Muggle Studies, second semester, fifth year. Muggles wondered about some interesting things, and this was one of them. Was it his intrinsic nature to kill Albus Dumbledore, or was it something that the chaos of the universe had dictated?

Hermione asked, "Why do you hate Albus?"

Riddle surveyed her calmly, and Hermione was sure he saw through her ruse, was sure he had somehow found out that she knew that he and Albus had had conflicts at school... but no. "He was a Transfiguration Professor before becoming Headmaster," he said, "which I'm sure you know. My Transfiguration Professor. And he never liked me, and I never liked him. To him, I was not the perfect Tom Riddle. In fact, to Dumbledore I was always strangely invisible." Riddle frowned. "Either that, or he would give me these strange stares, like he knew more than he should. Regardless, I always felt like he _knew_ how much better I was than every other student there, but he just never told me, or even told me I was good, besides the marks I would get in his class, like he was reluctant to give me an O on everything – and that made me hate him so much..."

His face had curled up into a very unappealing snarl, but he closed his eyes, forcing away the feeling, and he drew in a deep breath, and winced again. Hermione sat back in her armchair and just looked at him. He'd told the truth. That was progress. Truth was always good. And, after all, as a schoolgirl, wouldn't she have been infuriated if some teacher – the best teacher at Hogwarts – had never told her she was worth anything, had never praised her as every other teacher had? That would have irked her. Maybe it already had. _Trelawney._

But that one phrase, letting on more than he would say. 'Like he knew more than he should.'

Of course – the Chamber of Secrets. Hermione had nearly forgotten how Moaning Myrtle had been killed during Riddle's time at Hogwarts, and that was one of the main reasons why Dumbledore had never liked Riddle, because he'd gotten Hagrid expelled.

Hermione felt a sudden surge of dislike, and she picked at it. "What do you mean, like he knew more than he should?"

Riddle surveyed her darkly. "There were some... questionable events at Hogwarts while I was there," he said, "resulting in a death of one of the students. You are... familiar with the Chamber of Secrets and its history?" And suddenly, the look on his face was wary, almost sharp. "Yes, you are. Hermione, I think you know what happened already." She looked away from him, confirming his suspicion. "I don't appreciate the manipulation."

She swallowed a quick retort. His dark gaze pierced into her, and she sighed. "Fine. You caught me. Why would you do that to Hagrid? Why would you do that to Myrtle?"

"It wasn't as if I personally targeted the girl," said Riddle indignantly. "I'm the Heir of Slytherin; it was a calling. She just happened to be in the bathroom, crying, and if she'd seen me in there – if she _told_ anyone – that couldn't happen."

He raised his eyebrows, looked up at the canopy above him, and continued. "And Hagrid – Hagrid always detested me for being everything he was not and I always detested him for detesting me, and he was so beloved by everything foul and dangerous, so he was the obvious person to blame it on if I was going to stay at Hogwarts, which... which I – I had to stay at Hogwarts." And the tone of his voice changed a little, a little lower, a little quicker, like there was still some danger of his expulsion, like he was still scared. "And I knew, I _knew_ if I got expelled for it – I knew Dumbledore wouldn't be kind about it, but if his darling pet half-giant got expelled, of course he would be right there coddling him, if only because he was too stupid and incompetent to fend for himself -"

"Tom," said Hermione sharply. Their gazes clashed, Hermione's lips pursed, Riddle's jaw set stubbornly.

"What? He's a half-giant. That's hardly uncommon knowledge," Riddle said in an obvious tone of voice.

Suddenly, a memory flashed across Riddle's eyes, but it was not his memory.

_A mighty, throaty bellow, and the floor rattled. "Hagrid!" screamed Hermione from the floor, tears streaming from her eyes. "Stop it, you terrible, evil -"_

_ "Why don't you take a rest from your jabbering, Mudblood," hissed that woman, that crazy-looking woman, and she flourished her wand, and suddenly Hermione was gasping and letting out panicked screams under that silent Crucio, but her watering gaze was fixed on Hagrid, who was kneeling at the front of the room, three masked men standing there and holding wands, blasting away at his thick skin with the Cruciatus, and next to Hermione was a limply hanging girl with blonde hair and very wide eyes, dangling by her ankles, swaying back and forth... The curse broke._

_ Hermione's small hands worked furiously at the weirdly old-fashioned, too-big manacles that chafed her wrists and connected her to the wall. The woman's attention was back on Hagrid now – and Hermione's face changed suddenly, abrupt disbelief hitting her expression with immediacy, and she raised a freed, shaking hand from the manacle and closed her eyes and wrenched at the other hand with gritted teeth, and it popped loose._

_ And Hermione was crawling to the table, where two wands lay, and she flourished them both in one hand, and instantly two tremendous explosions burst out of the floor, but that crazy woman ignored it, turned to Hermione with a snarl on her face, started furiously dueling her, and Hermione could only whimper and shield with everything she had, shooting desperate glances at the blonde girl, even though the door was open and only three feet behind her –_

_ And agony flooded over her expression as one of the woman's curses sliced at Hermione's shoulder, and Hermione stumbled back and disappeared through the door, with one last miserable look at the blonde._

_ Then, darkness in the halls, and loud breathing..._

"Riddle?"

His eyes popped open. "I – what?"

"You were just sitting there," she said, giving him a strange look. "Do you need a Sleeping Draught or something?"

Riddle glanced away. "Just... just a memory," he muttered uncomfortably, his hand curling around his wand handle for reassurance.

"Of what?"

He looked back at her and blinked slowly, wondering if she wanted to hear this. "It wasn't mine," he said.

"Oh," she said in a tiny voice, her eyes lost in his. What had he seen? Which part of her memories had come to him as they spoke about Hagrid? Maybe it was one of the earlier, happier memories, chatting in Hagrid's hut. Maybe it was that night, the night of the Astronomy O.W.L., the night that Hagrid had sprinted out of the Hogwarts Grounds with spells bouncing off him like some bizarre light show – or maybe it was the last time Hermione had seen him, as he had been huddled in front of the fireplace helplessly, Dolohov, Nott, and Avery standing above him, wands in hands, that night she had finally managed to escape from Bellatrix's clutches – and after all that, just to run and hide like a coward, leaving Luna there unconscious, maybe not even alive...

That was one of the worst memories of all, because Hermione _knew_ it was true. There was no chance it was a Boggart. Every second of that pain had been excruciatingly real.

"Hermione," Riddle's soft voice said, and again she was taken by the way he said it, gently, almost hesitantly.

"What?"

His eyes hardened back into their usual piercing stone as she looked at him. "I'd like to ask you how you've managed to stay... like you are, when you've been through so much."

And he didn't even know the worst of it, didn't even know of those last seventy-two _hours_ of pure agony. Hermione's stomach felt a little sick. She didn't know how she'd managed to retain any semblance of civilization. Did that make her strange, being able to adjust back to a normal existence after having experienced all that she had? Or did it just mean she was very good at denial? "I don't know," she said softly. "I try very hard not to think about it."

Riddle looked away from her, his eyes shadowed. "I would suppose you'd have to, but one of the questions that has been most present in my mind these last three weeks – or, well, the two that I've been conscious, I suppose. The question... How can you still have faith in humanity, after what those people have done to you?"

Hermione's eyes burned. He needed to know this. This was important. If he understood this, then it could mean he was on his way to understanding the basic functions of human compassion.

"Every time I was hurt," she started slowly, "I would wonder how people could possibly do this. I know that to correctly operate the Cruciatus Curse, you have to be enjoying what you're doing – and that was just completely unfathomable to me, how the Death Eaters could -"

"The who?" Riddle interrupted. He had heard the words a lot in her memory, but had never really thought about them.

Hermione glanced at him. "Death Eaters," she said, the words leaving a bad taste in her mouth and a steely glint in her eye. "Your followers."

"Lovely name," muttered Riddle with a roll of his dark eyes. "One would think I could come up with something a bit more intelligent—"

"Anyway," Hermione said, "they were all masters at the Cruciatus. They all _loved_ doing it, and every time I got hit with it, I would just not _understand_. How could they think this was right? How could they be enjoying what they were doing, hurting me, my friends, without the slightest bit of rationale?"

There was a long pause. Her tongue moved across her dry lips absent-mindedly. "But I never lost belief in humanity," she said, looking back up at Riddle, "because I always reassured myself with the fact that these people were the abnormalities. These people would be known forever as twisted, sick, torturous, insane. No matter what the cynics, what the paranoid, what _you _would like to believe, there is far more _good_ present in the world than evil, and that's clearly evident, well, even by just looking at history: when there are truly bad people, they're remembered. They stick out like sore thumbs, because they're not..._ normal_. For every one Death Eater in the world, I used to tell myself – I used to remind myself that for every Death Eater in Hogwarts, there were thousands of people in the world like me, like Dumbledore, like Harry, like Remus and Tonks, like Bill and Fred and George and – and _Ron_; that for every second of pain that I screamed through, there were hundreds more people feeling happiness and love…"

Her voice faded a little, and she sighed. She appeared to have worked herself up quite a bit, so she took in a slow breath. "I will never give up faith," she said with quiet strength. "It's all we have."

There was a long silence. Riddle assessed her silently, his dark features betraying nothing. Hermione let out a small sigh. "Do you understand?" she asked.

Riddle ached to lie to her, to tell her that yes, he understood every word, that he could see why she had remained so strong – but he _didn't_ understand. Not at all. Hope was frail; hope was weak. Faith was weaker. How could she place her very sanity in their hands? "No," he murmured, and he saw immense disappointment fill her eyes, and he wished they both thought on the same plane for just a heartbeat. "I don't understand that you can place so much of yourself into something that's not even concrete. Hope can always be stamped out."

"Hope can _never_ be stamped out," Hermione said sharply, and Riddle was a bit unsettled to see a sudden flare of anger in her eyes. "Not while Harry is alive. Not while anyone who'll stand up for what's right is alive." Then her eyes softened. "I don't understand _you_," she said. "If you don't believe in hope, then how are you in Slytherin? Ambition is nothing but hope's twisted half-brother."

"Ambition is goal-driven," replied Riddle shortly. "Hope is just a dream that was never dreamed."

A very mean thought filled Hermione's mind, but she held it back, keeping it unsaid. _If hope is so bad, then why am I not the one here who's an emotional cripple?_ She bit her lip gently. "Someday you'll understand," she muttered. "Someday you'll get what I'm telling you. God – someday you'll finally see what you've been missing."

She hadn't meant to sound so condescending; it had just sort of come out that way. She looked at Riddle's expression carefully, surprised to find no dark anger there. He looked a bit sad, a bit tired. Then, he murmured, "I don't think so."

Hermione had never heard such defeat in his voice. Surely if he just _tried_ to understand, if he _wanted_ to understand, then he could? Surely it was only human nature to comprehend these things? Why did he sound like he'd fought a war and lost? Then, suddenly, he asked a question, and every tinge of emotion was gone from his voice.

"How much do you know about my horcruxes, Hermione?"

His gaze was steady. She stared at him, wondering whether she should feign shock at the plural, wondering whether he had managed to find that she knew about all seven – or, well, all eight. He wouldn't have recognized most of them at this point – just the ring and the diary – but the chance seemed too slim.

"Quite a bit," she replied.

"Why don't you tell me what you know?"

"Because you don't want to hear it," she replied.

Riddle could feel his heart beating a little faster in his chest. What could she know that was worse than what he already knew – that _two_ of them had been ruined? Surely the most she could know was the number of them, which was quite a lot in itself – "Why?" he asked slowly.

"Because I know far more than you do," she answered. He cursed the way her face was completely unreadable right now, except for maybe a faint note of unease behind those strong hazel eyes.

Hermione found herself wanting to tell him. Surely, if she ever would, this was the best time, right? He couldn't hurt her while he was lying in bed with a gaping wound, and it would give him lots of time to mull it over, which was more than could happen after he was healed – though did she even want to tell him at all? It would hurt immensely to find out that his life's work was utterly ruined. Not like it would matter to tell him one more thing, after everything he already knew... But he insisted. "Please?" he asked, looking like it was causing him physical pain to say the word.

"Fine," she said, "but don't do anything rash when I tell you."

His heart raced even faster. It was almost cruel, the build-up she was giving this –

"They're all destroyed except for one."

The way she had said it was so calm, so blasé, that he could practically imagine she'd been talking about the weather, not about everything he had ever planned, not the destruction of his ability to become a Master of Death, not his plan to never have to feel that panic that one felt right before they died, the panic that he was slowly filling his stomach now. "Oh – oh," he said, his voice utterly strangled. He hadn't ever felt such fear, absolute terror, as if any second he would be killed back on earth and sent careening into the depths of death. _All but one? All but one? All but _one?

Hermione looked like she'd known this would happen, this rushing, awful, inexplicably terrible feeling, not just in his stomach, but razing his entire body, a nauseating swirl. "Are you sure?" he demanded.

"Absolutely sure." No hesitation. No doubt. In fact, there was even a hard edge to her eyes that Riddle didn't understand.

"How can you be sure they're destroyed?"

She opened her mouth, and then a flicker of fear spread across her face, and Riddle found he already knew the answer. He shook his head limply, and looked away from her. This was all he had ever wanted – not to die. And it had been so, so achievable... and she had ruined it. He found his voice saying, "How could you?" in a disgustingly weak whimper of a voice, a corrupted attempt at his usual virile interrogatory tone.

"How could I?" she asked, and her voice was suddenly shaking as he had never heard it shake – with utter hardly-controllable rage. He looked back at her, but made no clarification. He couldn't seem to find words at all. "_How could I?"_ Hermione repeated, her mouth quivering in barely-suppressed anger. "How could I see fit to attempt to stop, in the singleway I could, the man who was trying to murderall my friends and family? Oh, excuse me for attempting to save my own wretched life! Excuse me for doing something that would actually help people! Excuse me for trying to rip the Wizarding World back out of your clutches, back to a state where I might be able to get a job and have rightsand freedoms and be out of your disgusting discrimination!"

She was visibly shaking now, her every limb rigid, her mouth lifted in disgust. "Just for the sake of your vanity trip, your irrational fear of death—"

"Stop," he whispered, closing his eyes tight.

"I owe you _nothing_," she hissed. "Don't you _dare_ forget that _I did what I had to._"

He seemed to shrink under her words. His eyes were scrunched up, and he seemed to be shivering. Hermione's anger didn't fade or recede at the sight. _How could I – how _dare_ he. _He knew everything she'd been through to attempt to rid the world of him, and so he knew perfectly damn well why she'd try to do so. White-hot anger pricked at her nerves, almost making her want to spring out of her seat to slap him, but restricting her every movement was that cold grip she had on her mind at all times. _Heart on fire, mind on ice, _she remembered with a bit of a jolt. Her old mantra whenever she felt herself getting out of control.

"All right." She tried to breathe out her frustration. "Okay."

Unmasked fear still glowed on his face. Hermione felt a sick sort of satisfaction that he was finally being subjected to the fear that had ruled her that last month. He deserved to know what it was like, at the very least, to have that taste filling his mouth, that dread swelling in his very _blood._

And Riddle felt it. Oh, yes, he felt it.

It seemed like an age to Hermione that she watched him, but it felt like only a couple of moments to Riddle, though they were very strange moments... moments where his heart wasn't beating, where he was breathing shallowly through his mouth, the inside of which was dried up like dust, and he was strangely aware of his every orifice, his every appendage, everything that made him so absolutely mortal.

"Tom," Hermione said softly, and that word shattered his concentration. He looked back at her. Her anger seemed to have drained somewhat. "Everyone dies," she said softly, and those words made Riddle want to sob, because – because –

"I am not everyone," he told her in a broken voice.

Hermione sighed. He was _completely_ delusional. She slowly reached out and placed her hand on his in a comforting gesture, and said gently, "Yes, you are."

He had to learn it at some point. She just hadn't imagined he might cry when someone broke it to him.

Bizarrely, a drop worked itself out of the side of his eye, and a snarl made its way onto his face, and he shook his head as if to make the tear go away, but it just trailed down the side of his face, touching the place where his ear met his jaw before it quivered and fell onto the pillow. His face was still perfectly controlled, but his eyes were bright with insuppressible tears, and he seemed filled with rage at the fact.

Another tear. Before he could stop it.

Hermione's heart twisted a bit. Seeing this felt wrong, invasive, and he clearly would have smashed away his tears if he could have.

Hermione slowly reached out her thumb and wiped away his tear, gently, knowing the pain of crying against her own will, and his face was soft and warm under her finger, and his hand, she realized, was gripping onto hers like she was the last hold he had to earth. "Why did you do it to yourself?" she whispered, moving her chair so it was right up against the bed.

"I'm scared," he said, and it was so quiet she nearly couldn't hear it at all. "So scared. All the time."

And his eyes squeezed shut, and he bit his lip, and the tears started to come in earnest. Hermione raised her eyes to heaven and prayed for assistance as he opened his mouth and a legitimate sob worked its way out, a sob that should have had no tenure in the body of Tom Riddle, a sob that reminded her of that night when he had told her to leave, to _get the hell out_ – with that face she remembered so well, that face that he was clearly restraining right now. Only now – now – his warm hand was clutching hers, the muscles of his pale arms clearly defined. His grip tightened even more, and she could have sworn she saw pain show in his face, but she couldn't tell whether that was from his chest or from his insuppressible emotions.

"Why would you want to deny yourself death?" she asked quietly. "Everyone else has it. I would think you'd like to have something that everyone else in the world—"

He let out another nasal snarl, and she fell silent hopelessly. "Tom—"

At the word, his head jerked forward off the pillow, and then he opened his mouth and let out a cry of pain. Hermione moved his sheets, groping around for her wand with her one free hand, and she slowly inspected Riddle's wound. Right there, in the abdomen – two weak ropes of muscle had popped apart again. She sighed, squeezed Riddle's hand reassuringly, and with a shimmer of moonlike glow, the strands pieced themselves back together, not wanting to hold. But with a forced blue light, they did.

She replaced the gel and drew the covers back up. His face was turned away from her, and his shaking seemed to have stopped, though his hand held hers with as much force as ever.

"What you've done to your soul isn't something for anyone to be proud of."

"What does it matter, now?" he growled.

Hermione swallowed. She'd read in the passage on thread theory that those who had truly mutilated their souls beyond all human recognition could never truly move on to death, for they had already essentially stopped living by the time their physical selves passed on. "It matters," she said, "because you might be stuck here forever."

Riddle stiffened. He still did not look at her.

"You can fix yourself, though," she told him quietly.

"How?"

She paused. This wouldn't go down well. "Remorse."

He let out a loud snort of disbelief, surprising Hermione. "I don't believe either of us _really_ considers that to be possible," he mumbled. "I'd hazard a guess that I wouldn't be able to tell what it was, even if it did happen." He looked back at her, his dark eyes unreadable, trails of half-dried tears leading down from them like bizarre crystalline ornaments. Hermione reached out and slowly smoothed away the wetness from his face again. He looked bitter as she did it, looked humiliated.

"How do you know that, about remorse?" he suddenly demanded, as if he were hoping there were some other way, as if he were disbelieving that simple human emotion could be the key to anything important and magical.

"R.J. told me," she answered, "and he dedicated his life to studying horcruxes." Which, she thought, couldn't be far from the truth. He had, after all, given so much of his life to the horcrux he had created.

"Oh," Riddle said. "I... I see."

He stared at his dark green bedcurtains, stared at them like some secret was hidden in their folds. "How am I supposed to know when it happens?"

Hermione bit her lip. "You'll know. If it's remorse... you'll know."

How childlike he looked. How innocent he looked, just then, just as he was learning that his entire existence was unraveling, just as he was learning that nothing was going as planned and he wasn't even _happy_ with what he'd already done with his life. A muscle flexed in his strong jaw, and his eyelids lowered a little. "And, yet again," he murmured, "I've managed to make this all about me."

"That's just a part of being around you," said Hermione with a small smile.

"What's that, under your chair, by the way?" asked Riddle, glancing down to Hermione's notes. "I've been trying to get a decent look all day, but it hasn't been working out too well."

"Just some notes."

"On what?"

"Just... things."

"Highly specific as usual," he muttered, rolling his eyes. "I thought we were going to start being honest with each other?"

Hermione shot him a skeptical glance. "When did we agree to _that_?"

"I was under the impression that that was something that came with attempting to repair trust," Riddle said, his low voice smiling a bit now.

_Like you know what you're talking about when it comes to trust,_ thought Hermione involuntarily, and then she felt bad. "If you must know," she sighed, "these are my notes on this place. Theories about Life and Death."

Riddle raised his eyebrows. "Was that what you've been searching so furiously for since you arrived?"

"Well... well, yes," she admitted. "But I've... I don't know. I've reached a... a sort of a wall."

"Haven't found exactly what you need?"

Hermione shook her head. "No, I have. I've found it. I just – I don't know what to... _do_ with it."

Riddle eyed her curiously. "You were planning on 'doing' something with it?"

This was getting uncomfortably personal. Hermione wondered whether she should just tell him it was private, attempt to get him off her back. But was it really worth keeping it secret from Riddle? The main reason she wouldn't tell him was that he might be able to get back to earth... but he was only here because of all his horcruxes, not because of any character objects, so there wasn't anything he could do to strengthen the bonds between himself and earth. In fact, his soul was so helplessly partitioned that there wasn't much he could do about anything until he felt remorse, and then Hermione would be able to tell, surely.

Why did she want to tell him, though? This was her treasure. This was what she had worked so hard on for so long. Didn't she deserve to keep it secret? Didn't she owe that to herself, to everyone she hadn't told?

Then _why_ did she feel the desire to tell him?

Intellectual discoveries were always fun to share, Hermione mused. That was probably it. She'd always loved to share a good spell or two with Harry, or Ron, or a teacher before class, one she'd found in an obscure book, one no one else could know. It was that same type of draw she felt now.

"Well," she sighed, relenting, "I found this book buried in the Restricted Section by this Drew Che – Chez – well, it's a really odd last name, but that's beside the point. I'd read this tiny little snippet of this new magical theory a couple years back, I think it was, and they called it 'thread theory' – that is, essentially, a theory that people's souls, like threads, could unravel, and could get caught between Life and Death if they got stretched out, and lead people into this sort of – well, this place."

Riddle raised an eyebrow in interest. "So you were searching for more about it?"

"Yes, and Chez-what's-his-name's book had quite a bit written about it," Hermione exclaimed, her eyes glowing with sudden animation. "I took some really detailed notes. He's spot-on about most everything about this place, and then he theorizes that there are a few ways to get out of here – to Death, or to Life, though your soul has to be relatively intact to go anywhere at all."

She thought she saw a flicker of sharp dismay in Riddle's eyes, but she plowed on. "But, the thing is, since he was just speculating, it's all vague. Nothing specific, really, at all, and I'm... well, a little worried about trying something on myself, because honestly, messing around with souls and things sounds terribly like Dark Magic to me..."

"Well, perhaps between ourselves, we can come up with something for you?" Riddle suggested. Hermione raised her eyebrows in surprise. "Since it's not going to be possible for me," he added quickly, surely scared of seeming anywhere near considerate. Then he shot her a furtive glance and looked back at the bedcurtains. "Also... I do owe you your life."

Hermione felt shocked for a second, because that sounded awfully like he knew how she'd died – but no, he just felt responsible for overrunning Hogwarts with Dark Wizards, and assumed she'd been caught in the crossfire. She'd kept her one vital secret locked up well.

"Well... yes," she said. "Maybe we can."

She gave him a small smile. And only in that silence did Hermione realize that he was still holding onto her hand, that she hadn't taken it from his grip yet. And he _squeezed_ her hand, as if reassuring her, and it was like an incredible shock was barreling up through her arm, spreading an itch of heat through her whole body. She felt her cheeks slowly turn pink as they just looked at each other, and she was sure her hand was sweaty and unpleasant to hold, or something, and she was wondering why he wasn't letting go, and she was wondering why she herself wasn't letting go, either, or really wanting to let go at all.


	19. Chapter 19

**All my love:**

**Sexy-jess, ChaosHasCome, SamanthaRenee, Ember Nickel, RealityCheck0, Lysara, MissImpossible, Galavantian, cocoartist, secret, bingbing196, KatieMarrie, The Lady Massacre, sweet-tang-honney, Agent Twinkle Toes, ilikebluepineapples, melancholya, BooklvrAnnie, Serpent In Red, Adrenaline Junkie In Da House (XD), LarissaM, abcdreamer, Anna on the Horizon, Cirkeline, Ashlikescash, emobabygirl101, NougatEvolution, xXsmanthaXx, Lyni Potter, Texan Insomniac, VeniVidiVici92, Nerys, CsillanRose, f4vivian, magentasouth, aaaand ClaireReno.**

* * *

Whatever Riddle had meant when he'd told her he'd changed, Hermione was convinced. The next few days were indescribable in their bizarre amiability, an easy feeling coming to their conversations almost naturally. In fact, whenever Hermione found herself thinking about Mina, she just started talking, and inevitability that terrible, empty feeling would be distracted away.

She and Riddle had tossed around several theories for her return to Earth, even though there was something about the idea that was unappealing to Hermione for some reason. They'd tried one idea already, which was for Hermione to create the same ward in this Hogwarts as she'd made back on Earth – but it hadn't seemed to have any effect at all.

Hermione was pleased about how the Healing was going. The potions seemed to be beating back the curse little by little, and Hermione had completely finished repairing the muscles of Riddle's abdomen, which had taken an exhausting ten hours. "At this rate, you'll be better in about a week and a half," she told him, and he scowled.

"Do you mean to imply that's a good thing?"

"Well... well, yes," she replied. "Given my original guess that I wouldn't have you out of here until late February."

He sighed. "Hermione, I don't know the date," he said tiredly. "There isn't a calendar in here." Then, she flicked her wand, and suddenly there was something over his eyes. "What are you doing?" he asked, his voice sharp, but just as suddenly, the thing was gone, and a large calendar sat at the foot of his bed.

"Just proving you wrong," she said innocently. "Look. Right there. January 10th."

"Tom Riddle is never wrong," he said. And the smirk came readily to him. Yes, Tom Riddle was back to his old self, for the most part, but with more knowledge than ever, more control than ever, and more connection to this girl than ever. He was stunned by how much time she spent by his bedside. She arrived before he awoke, and oftentimes did not leave until after he had gone to sleep.

Of course, they could not speak the entire time – she needed her concentration, after all, if he wanted to get better. Which he definitely did.

"I want to try this," Hermione suddenly said, jerking Riddle from his thoughts. She was holding an unfamiliar black book.

"What's that, then?"

She turned it so he could read the title: Runic Spells. Runic Spells? "I've never heard of Runic Spells," he said in a puzzled voice.

"Maybe they discovered it after 1945," she suggested.

"Oh, well. Carry on," he said.

"So, it says in Healing Handicraft Edition Nine that Runic Spells can be phenomenally powerful during Healings," Hermione said, flipping through a big red book that she always referred to. "And I've never tried a Runic Spell before, but I got an O on my Ancient Runes O.W.L., and I feel fairly confident that I can handle whatever this book tosses at me, so I was wondering if you'd... let me try."

He eyed the black book a bit warily. "I trust you," he said uneasily. There was a bit of a pause where Hermione smiled at the words, and Riddle sort of realized the weight of what he'd said.

"Excellent!" she said, standing up. "Alright, let's see here."

Her eyes sped down the instructional pages for Healing using Runes.

After about twenty minutes of reading, Riddle asked, "So, what's the basic premise?"

Hermione shrugged. "There's apparently a basic framework for a Runic Spell, and you use Flagrate to specify in writing which runes you're using. Then you cast a spell, say the runes aloud, and voila! Doesn't seem terribly difficult; I'm surprised they didn't start teaching us how to use these at O.W.L. level."

She perused a diagram in the black book, sat on the side of the bed, and surveyed the incantation and wand movement. She practiced both by themselves a couple times. "Terinculum Efectiva," she muttered to herself. Then, the wand movement – a sliding forward motion ending in a swift flick for every rune space; fairly easy.

Hermione pulled a piece of parchment from under her chair and wrote down the runes she was planning on using, just in case, for reference. Irwaz. Unam. Zwahir. Lecte. Menha.

"I hope you know what you're doing," mumbled Riddle.

"Oh, hush," Hermione said cheerfully, and placed her wand right where his ribcage started, at the top. "Terinculum Efectiva," she said carefully, her wand gliding forward, and then a flick. A fiery red square hovered in the air right where she'd flicked. She traced her wand down and to the left, then down, to the right, and up, creating a perfect pentagonal area outlined by connected red squares. She cast _Flagrate_ nonverbally, and then slowly etched one rune into each box. As she started each square, the one before it glowed a bright white before fading into a gentle peach color. Then, the last box was filled, and turned peach.

A vein of white light suddenly erupted in the connections between the runes, and the pentagon started to shake violently. Hermione watched with alarm. That was a _lot_ of power struggling to get free. A little panicked, she glanced back to her list, letting her wand rest over each square as she pronounced them counterclockwise. "Irwaz! Unam! Zwahir! Lecte! Menha!" Her voice trembled a little.

As she said, "Menha," the boxes opened on the inside, and bright white light flooded into the center of the pentagon. Hermione pursed her lips – her outline wasn't looking entirely stable. What if something had gone wrong? What if she was about to ruin everything?

But even as she watched, the pentagon, which was shooting out random spikes of power like it was a piece of living static, descended downwards and placed itself onto Riddle's chest – and then it sank into his body.

Hermione watched, wide-eyed, as the torn muscles seemed to glow the very red of which they were created. Then, of their own volition, they started to weave themselves back together, every tiniest strand rippling back into a seamless whole of a perfectly intact set of pectoral muscles.

Riddle was looking positively alarmed. That had to be a very, very strange feeling.

Hermione practically leapt off the bed, almost-disbelieving in absolute victory. "Yes!" she cheered. "Merlin, I can't believe that worked!"

And suddenly she felt a staggering weakness hit her, like a blow to the stomach, and she toppled down hard onto the edge of the bed, her hands grasping for purchase on the covers.

"Hermione," said Riddle quickly. "Hermione?"

She lifted her head, the sudden debilitation scaring her. Then her mouth involuntarily stretched in an incredibly wide yawn. "I'm…I have to…"

Her self-control drained even as she said the words, turning them into a hopeless slur, and she could barely turn herself onto her back and lift her feet onto the bed before her head was dropping down onto the mattress in a dead faint.

Riddle surveyed her in surprise. He considered trying to Ennervate her, but that spell lent unnatural energy to its recipient, which wouldn't be good for her bodily systems if the Runic magic had managed to weaken them somehow.

This was a side of magic Riddle had never seen before. Usually, magic seemed to have its own source of power, didn't just suck it out of its caster like a parasite feeding from a host. For instance, Riddle could stand there and cast Stupefy for days on end, and it wouldn't tire him in the least. Magic was not supposed to be an exhaustible substance. This Runic thing was very unsettling, to say the least. "Hermione?" he said again, tentatively, though he didn't really expect a response.

Her head was only a few inches from his, looking blissfully peaceful in unconsciousness. One thick, tangled stray lock of hair wandered its way across her eye and laid itself over a cheek. Her body was clad in a soft red sweater, whose sleeves were rolled up to her elbows. Riddle looked away, feeling a bit uncomfortable with the situation, feeling more than a bit uncomfortable with the sudden urge he felt to reach out his hand and touch her forearm. He cleared his throat and turned his head the other way.

It was still unfathomable to him that she should spend so much time healing him, but he was growing to... _appreciate_ it, more and more. Increasingly, as time wore on, Riddle realized that the only people who came to see him were Hermione, Abraxas, Revelend, and Herpo. He didn't see fit to wonder why, per se, but it made him realize that it mattered genuinely to very few people that he was hurt, which was... an odd feeling, to say the least. Although it was admittedly more odd that Araminta Meliflua wasn't barging in at every available hour.

Stranger was that he didn't feel angered that people wouldn't like to visit Tom Riddle in his frail state. He comforted himself with such excuses as that they might not know he was awake, that they probably didn't want to see him while injured, or the best, that he scared the living daylights out of them even while he lay in bed, though that wasn't logical.

But the most reassuring thing, he found, was that he just didn't even care that much. Not while the other four were still coming in day after day. Each day, Revelend and Herpo brought suggestions as to new potions to try, and Abraxas would help Hermione heal his torso somewhat. Anyone else, really, would have been a nuisance, especially stupid, giggling females like those Ravenclaw sisters. It was really despicable that anyone should have such a blatant lack of subtlety as they managed to possess... Riddle felt like Hermione should give them some sort of instruction as to how to actually impress upon the world that they had some semblance of a personality.

Riddle wrinkled his nose. Hermione's incredibly dense, voluminous hair was spreading its smell over to his head on the pillow, and it seemed to be intoxicating him slightly. Surely there was no other reason besides alcohol that he should be feeling the inclination to lightly touch the face of a sleeping—a sleeping—

That was odd. He'd stopped himself before thinking the word 'Mudblood'. The word didn't come just like any other word in his impressive vocabulary.

Granger was taking her toll, Riddle thought moodily. Wasn't he supposed to feel eager about fulfilling the purifying work of Salazar Slytherin?

Her angry words of the first day he had awoken streamed back to him. _"Excuse me for trying to rip the Wizarding World back out of your clutches, back to a state where I might be able to get a job and have rights and freedoms and be out of your disgusting discrimination!_"

Rights and freedoms? Riddle pondered the words. She didn't really have the natural rights, the inherent freedoms that came with being someone of noble blood. Perhaps she thought it a bit unfair that she wouldn't even be allowed social and political freedoms, which was almost reasonable, Riddle supposed... except that what were Muggle-borns but Muggles that happened to be able to work a wand? And Riddle had always thought that if Muggles were never to do anything ever again, then it would not be a shame. If every single Muggle on the face of the earth were just _gone_, it would not be a shame, because no one would have to deal with them, their incompetence, their mindless self-importance, their self-impressed so-called 'ingenuity'; no one would ever be hurt again by their animalistic stupidity... and the spawn of Muggles, Muggle-borns – there had to be something wrong with them. They had to get their magic from some unnatural, traitorous source, surely. How could magic just... _spring_ out of nothingness? Spring out of _Muggles_, spring out of those _sub-humans_, spring out of that species he _surely_ was not related to...

Riddle clenched his teeth. But how could he explain Hermione? She was an incredibly powerful witch. Very controlled, very intelligent, and of course, very mature. Magic seemed to be the only thing she cared about—she certainly didn't care about her appearance, like other girls—and she was damn goodat it. In fact, when there were Muggle-borns like Granger, and many incompetent Purebloods, how could Riddle be sure of telling himself, repeatedly, _Muggle-borns are inferior_?

Then he got a strange feeling, because he felt like he shouldn't be thinking that thought, as he surveyed the girl who had quite literally knocked herself out to help him. There were other times for such wonderings, times when he wouldn't feel... _bad_ for thinking about it, like when she was fully conscious, for example.

She lay there for the better part of the day. It was only when the sun had already gone down that her eyes slowly flickered open.

"Are you feeling alright?" asked Riddle from next to her, and she jumped, a bit disoriented.

"Okay," she mumbled, and looked out the window into the night with a calm eye. "Goodness, I've been out for a while."

"Quite a while," Riddle agreed. "You, too, are far more entertaining while conscious."

Hermione let out a tired chuckle. "Glad to hear that." She slid off the bed. "Wow, that _really_ takes it out of you. I think I'm going to have to go sleep," she told him. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Sleep well," he said. Hermione smiled weakly and left, shutting the door quietly behind her.

Hermione entered the Gryffindor dormitory. It wasn't terribly late at night, so it was empty, but Hermione couldn't help staring at Mina's bed, as usual, and wishing that it weren't empty, wishing bitterly that she'd had the courage to talk to her friend one last time. Then her head hit the pillow, and she thought no more.

xXxXxXxXx

The next three days were better. Hermione did not work with any more Runic Spells, but she did manage to finish the sides of the pectoral muscles and many of the blood vessels lacing over them. Then, just when she expected it least, Riddle asked a very, _very_ unkind question.

"Hermione?"

"Yeah?"

"I was wondering why you think Muggle-borns are equal to Purebloods."

Utter bewilderment filled her features. He was completely honest in asking, somehow. He actually wanted _her_ opinion on the subject, which was weird in itself. "Uh, Riddle, are you sure you want to speak about this topic with me?" she asked uneasily.

"Yes," he said, frowning. "Why?"

"Well, because as the conversation wears on, I'm hesitantly predicting that I will have to restrain myself from slapping you, and violence against an invalid is hardly admirable."

Riddle smirked. "As long as you manage to restrain yourself, I don't think that should be a problem. After all, you are such fun when you're angry."

"This won't be the amusing type of angry," Hermione said seriously. "This will be the curse-you-until-I've-managed-to-unheal-you-completely type of angry."

He sighed, his serious features looking a bit bored. "Well, all right, then, but I have been dedicating quite a lot of thought to the subject lately, and I figured I would ask your opinion, since your opinions are so frequently different from those of any of my other acquaintances."

Hermione restrained a sarcastic laugh. 'Acquaintances,' as in followers, right. "Well, let's start off with the fact that magical ability is clearly unrelated to heritage," Hermione sighed. "As demonstrated with great frequency by such idiots in my year at Hogwarts as Vincent Crabbe, who was a pure-blood and absolutely abysmal at everything he put a wand to."

"As opposed to yourself. Yes, that's a bit of an issue I've been considering for a while. Continue."

Hermione restrained a bit of irritation at his casual order. It happened often, but that didn't mean she had to like it. "Second of all, the type of magic we do is exactly the same. I have the capacity to use the exact same magic as any Pureblood. Third of all, who are Purebloods but the descendants of very, very old Muggle-borns, too far back to remember? After all, you know that there was only one original witch and one original wizard, which either means their children married in with Muggle-borns, or that every Pureblood is the child of incest, which isn't a very pleasant thought either."

Riddle frowned. That was a bit of a technicality – not much substance behind that third argument, really. The fact was that now, regardless of origin, there were families that were Wizarding as far back as was recorded, and those were the Pureblooded families, and that was that.

Hermione continued. "Fourth of all, I don't even see how birth is relevant to one's being a witch or wizard. I mean, look at you."

Riddle stiffened. "What _about_ me?" he ground out. This was not an appropriate tangent.

"Look, I know you'd love to deny your Muggle heritage," Hermione sighed, "but -"

"That man was _not my father,_" hissed Riddle, and Hermione wasn't surprised to see utter hatred filling his face.

"I'm not trying to tell you he was any sort of decent parent," Hermione said firmly. "The point is, from that Muggle came you, a stronger wizard than has maybe ever existed." He looked only faintly mollified by her words, so she kept on determinedly. "You can say what you'd like about him being Muggle filth, dirty trash, a worthless waste of oxygen—yes, I've heard it _all_ before—but the point is that he evidently had the capacity to create a brilliant wizard, so if that capacity exists in every Muggle, then I don't feel as if there's much to debate."

There was a silence. Riddle considered her words. She was being overtly complimentary in an obvious effort to contain his anger, and he was a bit annoyed to find that it was working. He had always liked praise a bit more than he should, for reasons that were obvious to him. But praise from the sharp tongue of Hermione Granger was not given easily, so it was not a crime to feel a bit calmed by what she'd said. That was beside the point, though – it was the argument he cared about, not a girl's compliments, of course.

"But surely you can't deny that you've been cheated of so much by being _raised_ by _Muggles,_" he said.

Hermione shrugged. "There are fantastic wizards of other blood that have been _raised_ by _Muggles_," she said, her tone mocking his words, "and before you go getting a swelled head, I'm not just talking about you."

"The Potter boy," Riddle muttered. Hermione nodded, glancing out the window like she was subconsciously wishing for escape.

"Yes," Hermione said. "He was half-blood, sort of. His mother was Muggle-born – and she was brilliant, too, or so Sluggy said..."

Riddle let out a derisive laugh. "Horace Slughorn is hardly the most quotable source of accurate knowledge."

_Didn't stop you from asking him about horcruxes. _Hermione shrugged. "He's a very competent wizard, and, as I'm sure you know, he has a talent for spotting talent."

The boy opposite her let out an indifferent noise and fiddled with his wand, suddenly growing a bit tired of the conversation. He hadn't even really attempted to impress his views upon her yet, but what was the point? There was every chance that it might turn into an uncomfortable discussion of parts of his past that were definitely better left suppressed. Moreover, did he really think that she could understand? She didn't have an ounce of pure blood in her, nothing that could call at her mind to see why being a Muggle-born was just... aberrant.

"Never mind," he sighed idly.

Hermione looked a bit put off. After he'd dragged her into talking about it against her will, he supposed it had been a bit of a waste of her time and energy. "My apologies," he said, "but, upon reexamination, I don't think you'd start to see it my way."

"Neither do I," said Hermione. "But I was hoping I might have a shot at converting you."

He looked at her with a dark, amused eye. "Somehow, I find it difficult to see that happening," he said wryly. Hermione looked at him, her gaze irritatingly reproachful.

"Fine," she sighed. "I just don't understand why you're not just telling Abraxas to heal me and telling me to 'get out, Mudblood,' if you hate Muggle-borns so much."

It was a bit of a shock to hear the word from her lips, Riddle realized... and, as her memories infiltrated his awareness once more, he also realized that it was _not_ just another word. The way she said it... there was so much context behind it, from that very first time she'd heard the name and been terribly confused to the subsequent years, with being Petrified, with being forced into being scared about who she was.

"Don't call yourself that," he said calmly, but inside, he was deeply unsettled. That word had always been nothing, had always been something he had dropped without a second care. What had changed? Why was the memory of one girl sufficient to make him never want to hear someone call her that again?

"Why?" laughed Hermione mirthlessly. "Isn't that what I am to you? Just another low-down, dirty, unfit-to-hold-a-wand Mudb-"

"I told you not to call yourself that," Riddle interrupted sharply, his eyes darkening. Hermione raised one eyebrow.

"Well, I don't see how it makes a difference, Tom," she sighed. "There will always be people who will spit at my very existence because of my birth. Which—er, doesn't that include you?"

He swallowed. "I would never spit at your existence," he said.

"Oh, but you already have," Hermione said softly, a glint in her brown eyes. "Every time you speak about inferior birth, every time the thought _crosses your mind_, you're stamping on the fact that I have worked exactly as hard as, if not harder than, all the Wizard-born children I know to be a more-than-competent witch. And don't try to convince yourself out of that one, because it's true."

She wondered if she'd gone too far as she noticed his torn expression. Then she just wondered why his expression was torn in the first place. What did her feelings matter to him? What did the way she was treated matter to him?

Hermione sighed. If someone had treated him as badly as she'd been treated for something he had no control over, she would care. But that was... it was different. He never let himself care about anything, and this was the most bizarre of all bizarre things to care about.

Then Hermione felt a bit guilty. So, in essence, she was thinking of herself as better than him, able to care for him though he could not for her? If she was going to attempt, however tentatively, to help him be a sort of a normal person, that was not a good tack to take. Then his words broke her out of her reverie.

"I'm sorry," he said. She stared at him. Very hard. His voice was low and sincere.

"For what?"

"For what you've been through," Riddle said.

Hermione frowned in confusion. "Well, I... so am I," she said slowly. Was this some sort of trick? Of course, he'd already said he was sorry in the letter. This was just a bit of an unexpectedly placed regurgitation. But... he was apologizing for how people had treated her for her birth. Wasn't that the biggest thing he should be _agreeing_ with? "Wait, wait. I'm completely confused. Don't you agree with the philosophy that all those people in my past just happened to act on?"

He frowned. "Not when it pertains to you."

Her eyes narrowed. She could only stare. Those were not Tom Riddle words to say.

"I will not permit anyone to call you that again," Riddle decided. "Not ever."

Hermione laughed then, because the notion was just so utterly absurd. "Just me? What about every other Muggle-born?"

"No," he said. "Just you. I'd prefer to believe, for the sake of my sanity, that you are actually a Pureblood who just happened to be born to Muggle parents."

Hermione let out a sarcastic chuckle and said, "Actually, that's essentially the main basis for my argument – that every witch and wizard is exactly the same, just born to different families."

He scowled a bit, blowing his dark hair out of his eyes. "Fine, then. You can be right in one circumstance. Your own."

"Well, thank you, Master," Hermione said mockingly, and Riddle shifted uncomfortably. He didn't want to hear her calling him Master, like all his followers. She was worth more than that.

He sighed. "Anyway, so, what's there left to be done before I'm allowed to stand up again? I really am getting tired of just lying here."

"Even after you technically are allowed to stand up, you probably shouldn't, just because, well, it might take a while for your body to get used to being all there again." She shrugged.

Riddle scoffed. "Hermione, as soon as I am able to stand up, I will be walking out of this room and probably never returning. I've spent so much time lying down that I feel my back has melted into the damn bedsheets."

Hermione laughed, "Let's hope not, because that would be more than a bit of a setback. Anyway, we'll deal with that when we get there. We've still got a good week or so to go."

He groaned. "Whoever cursed me will pay for this," he mumbled.

"How many times do I have to tell you? No one _tried_ to curse you. Two spells collided in the air."

"Then whose were they? Merlin, they're in for it -"

"I am not telling you," Hermione said firmly, "and you had _better_ not try to track them down and hurt them."

Riddle shot her a weird look. "Why does it matter so much to you?"

"Why do you think?"

He looked a bit nonplussed, and he glanced down at his wand hand again. "Because... let me guess," he sighed idly, with great sarcasm, "you _care_ about them."

"It's not that. It's that it's not your right to just go around hexing people like there's no problem."

"But there _isn't_ a problem."

"Yes, there is!" Hermione said exasperatedly. "Honestly, Tom, when are you going to understand that other people are _separate_ from you? They're not just there for your entertainment, or for you to do whatever you'd like with them."

He stared up at the ceiling, not wanting to listen, because this went against every philosophy he'd ever employed. "Well, then, what do _you_ propose I do?" he said with great snark in his tone, letting his head flop over to look at her.

"Well, if they're decent people, then once you're back, they'll probably walk up to you and apologize for hitting you, even though it was an accident."

"And would that be my opportunity to agree with them about their incompetence and strike?"

"What? No! Are you serious?"

"Well, don't get mad!" he said defensively. "Honestly, I don't—then what—"

He was so ridiculous! It was like he'd just memorized a Wrong Choices how-to manual or something, Hermione thought with complete exasperation. There wasn't even a right place to start with him. "After they would apologize, you would say that although it was a great inconvenience, it was okay, because they didn't mean to hurt you."

Riddle stared at her like she had sprouted an extra head. "So someone who essentially gave me a life-ending wound would just _apologize_, and I would say it was _nothing_? That's stupid! I don't see why I can't just curse them back, and then everything will be even."

Hermione looked up at the ceiling, closing her eyes, praying for some sort of divine assistance. "There's a philosophy that says, 'My right to swing my fist ends when it collides with your face.' You'd probably do well to remember that, Tom."

"I don't appreciate you telling me what I should and should not remember," he muttered mutinously. He paused, and then said, "Well-phrased argument, though. Where'd you hear it, anyway?"

Hermione turned a bemused glance to him, her lips quivering with restrained laughter. "Muggle Studies."

"_What?_"

"Oh, I shouldn't have said that," she chuckled helplessly. "You should see your face." There was a comically large frown on his lips, and his dark eyes were wide and filled with utter disbelief.

"Why would _you_ take _Muggle Studies_?" he asked. "Don't you... well, shouldn't you already know about Muggles?"

Hermione rolled her eyes, remembering how many other students had asked her that in the past. "There's more to Muggles than Muggle culture, you know," she said. "There was a whole semester on Muggle philosophy, and it was absolutely fascinating. There were some really excellent Muggle thinkers. And the people they have who invent things – scientists – they've got original ways to do things without magic. Interesting things to learn, in general."

Riddle rolled his eyes. "Of course."

"You don't believe me," she accused. "I'll have you know that people like Nikolai Tesla, Thomas Edison, Louis Pasteur, Marie Curie, Aristotle, Plato, Jean-Paul Sartre, Dante – they were all just as intelligent as you or I."

"But they were _Muggles_," said Riddle patronizingly. "That's not even the same _type_ of … _thing_. Besides, what sort of names are Plato and Dante?" He snickered a bit, and Hermione shot him a level glare.

"For your information, Tom, Plato was a philosopher whose work was vital in not only ethics, but also epistemology, metaphysics, and aesthetics. He taught Aristotle, too. Greek. Very intelligent. And Dante was an Italian who, among other works, put forward a philosophy about the nine circles of Hell – and people still refer to that philosophy today, even though his work is hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of years old."

"Nine circles of Hell, eh?" Riddle mused. He actually had heard of that. "So this Dante person invented that?"

"It was his theory, yes," sniffed Hermione.

"Well, then, what's in the ninth circle? That's the worst, right?" asked Riddle, and though his tone was that of boredom, Hermione could have sworn she heard a pinch of genuine curiosity.

"Traitors," she said. "It's all these miserable treacherous people, and as you get closer to the center of the circle, they're all frozen in ice to varying degrees."

"And in the center is the Devil, or Satan or something, of course."

Hermione nodded. "A three-headed demon who chews on the worst traitors of all—Brutus, Cassius, and Judas."

Riddle had only heard of Judas, and even then, only in passing. "So, what did they do that was so much worse?" he asked.

"Betrayal of their benefactors," Hermione told him idly, spinning her wand around in a hand. "Supposedly the worst sin of all. Brutus and Cassius betrayed and killed their friend, the Emperor of Rome, Julius Caesar. And Judas betrayed Jesus to be crucified, although Jesus was only ever kind."

Riddle yawned. "Well, that's interesting," he said, but he didn't follow it up with a sarcastic comment, as Hermione had been sure he would. "You're rather well-read, aren't you?" he asked instead, with a wry smile.

Hermione laughed. "Yes, I am, rather," she said, "and if it's taken you that long to figure that out, perhaps you're not as intelligent as I give you credit for." She placed a potion bottle to his lips. "Drink up."

xXxXxXxXx

"Hermione," Riddle sighed, "what do you think you'd be doing right now if you were back on Earth?"

"Well," she answered carefully, tapping a limp vein with her wand, "I do think that depends." Riddle was used to the strange feelings of her wand prodding at him by now, and was used to the golden glows that often accompanied them.

"Depends on what?" Light streamed from Hermione's wand into his chest.

"Depends on whether or not you've managed to kill Harry yet," she said glumly. Riddle winced inwardly. Of course – his other self was trying to find the Potter boy.

"What if I didn't exist?" he mused. "What if you were just a regular seventh-year student?"

Hermione sighed wistfully. She had wished for that so often, so hard. "I'd say that I'd probably be nagging Harry and Ron to get a move on with their homework." A smile curled her lip. "And I'd probably be Head Girl, and I'd be desperately worrying about N.E.W.T.s, I suppose. What were those like, anyway?"

"Easy," said Riddle. "Nothing you'd need to be worried about."

"Well," Hermione continued, "I probably wouldn't listen to everyone who was telling me I had nothing to worry about, I'd stay up half my nights studying, and then with my nonexistent free time I'd probably be helping Harry and Ron with their work."

Riddle raised his eyebrows. He hadn't ever studied a day in his life. Actually, he'd be surprised if Hermione had ever really needed to study at all, either. "Why do you study so much?"

"I have to," she said, straightening up from Riddle's chest. "It's one of my greatest fears that I fail myself academically."

"And what would that be, getting an Exceeds Expectations on an assignment?" Riddle scoffed.

She scowled and drew herself up haughtily. "Actually, I'll have you know that I got an Exceeds Expectations on my Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L., and I was _extremely_ distraught. But no one would listen to me, because I got an Outstanding on everything else."

Riddle chuckled a little.

"Are you laughing at me? That's a very important O.W.L., you know."

"Oh, no, I'd never laugh at an insane perfectionist," yawned Riddle, peering at her out of one eye.

"Why, you...! Well, I'll bet you got Outstanding on everything," Hermione said, a recalcitrant tone seeping into her voice.

"Yes, I did, and I'll give you three guesses as to how many hours I studied a day."

Hermione thought for a second. She had usually averaged out at about nine, herself. "Nine?"

He smirked. "No."

"Seven?"

Now he just looked like he was restraining laughter. "No."

Hermione frowned. Surely, no less than five. Maybe he'd studied more than she had, back in his school days... "Ten?" There wasn't really a way to spend more than ten hours a day, except for when there weren't classes anymore.

"Wrong."

"Fine. How many?"

"Zero."

Hermione stared. "_What?_"

"Zero," he repeated, "and I'd daresay you could have gotten away with zero as well. All I ever did was assignments that needed turning in."

This was so unfair. Hermione had always dedicated her heart and soul to every class she'd ever had, and she'd still received that Exceeds Expectations in Defense Against the Dark Arts, like it was mocking her, and the _Dark Lord_ had received an Outstanding on that O.W.L...

"Sickeningly ironic, isn't it?" Riddle asked with an infuriating smirk, like he knew exactly what she was thinking. "But, really, everything you needed to know for those stupid tests, you learned in class, and knowing you, you took an incredible amount of detailed and unnecessary notes, right?"

"If I weren't trying to make you better, you would be hexed right now," Hermione muttered.

"Oh, calm down, woman," he sighed. "I personally assure you that you are far better than Outstanding at Defense Against the Dark Arts, and we both know that my word is likely more accurate than any of those examiners'."

She felt a little reassured in spite of herself. "Don't call me 'woman'," she told him, as an afterthought.

"Would you prefer 'man'?"

Hermione didn't see fit to grace that with a response.

xXxXxXxXx

It was January fourteenth, and Hermione had gone the entire day without arguing with Riddle, which was a feat. Hermione was shocked to find herself as relaxed as she had ever been around any of the Gryffindors, as she had ever been even around her friends from back on Earth. She could feel that she had, once more, let down that cautious barrier around Riddle, and she should have felt unsettled because of that, but she didn't. Perhaps it was because all he could do was lie there, even if he could use his wand. Perhaps it was because they seemed to be getting along. She had become completely accustomed to being there, with him, all day—and it didn't make much sense, but she was enjoying the harmless time spent speaking with him—all the time in the world, with no goal, no ulterior motive.

She almost found herself wishing that he wouldn't get better, so he wouldn't go sneaking around, potentially doing terrible things to people. After all, she trusted him when he was with her, and Abraxas, but she didn't trust anyone else to be able to hold their own against whatever his whims felt like doing at the time. Except Dumbledore.

Hermione felt like she had completely lost a grip on Albus because she hadn't told him about Riddle, which was utterly stupid, but seemingly unavoidable. In the wake of Mina's passage, Godric had started clinging to Albus in a gesture of absolute need, so one was rarely without the other. They both sat in the Infirmary, waiting for Miranda to wake up, as Mungo and Jared had said she should within several days.

Hermione was terrified for Miranda. It would be terrible to wake up and find Mina gone, to wake up and find that Hermione had somehow managed to estrange herself, to wake up to everything having absolutely changed.

Hermione was worried that Godric might learn about her healing Riddle. This was not a good time for Godric's unstable emotions, and he and Mina had never liked Riddle. If Godric learned that Hermione, instead of spending time with Gryffindor house, was holed up all day in Riddle's room, there would likely be hell to pay, and Hermione didn't want to have to face that.

Mina.

It was a bit strange to Hermione. R.J.'s loss had been harder on her, for reasons she could only start to guess at. Maybe because Hermione had really lost Mina so long before she moved on, lost her to House-difference stupidity and childish fighting, lost her to mistrust and random abandonment, lost her to Mina's love for Godric. Maybe it was because Hermione had sort of found someone to lean on in this situation, someone who was not grieving.

"It's working," she whispered, distracted from her thoughts by what her wand was doing.

It was working. It was working!

As she attempted for the millionth time to stretch a spell over Riddle's chest that would re-grow his skin, like a thin blue screen, for the first time in a million, it did not slide right off or refuse to find purchase. The boundaries of the spell stuck to the edges of his wound perfectly, and as Hermione drew her wand back with effort, the spell dragged itself over his torso and fitted itself into the hole in his chest. "Tom! It worked!" she said breathlessly. "Merlin, I can't believe it!"

He smiled, but only a little. "Does this mean you're going to stop healing me?"

"Well, if you don't have to be healed, there's not much healing I can do," said Hermione, her huge grin fading a bit. "I mean, I can cut off your hand, or something, if you'd like me to..."

It was the second time the smile had ever appeared on his face, that broad, even smile, not a hint of malice or self-satisfaction or smirking, and Hermione felt like someone had just put ice down her back. "That might be a suitable alternative," he mused, seemingly to himself.

"To what?" she laughed. Getting one's hand cut off was not usually a suitable alternative for anything.

"To not seeing you here from sun-up until sun-down," he replied evenly, his eyes meeting hers calmly, his words understated and honest and demure. And Hermione felt like someone had poured an entire glacier down her back.

There was no response to that. Even if she'd been able to think of one, anyway, she wasn't sure she would be able to say it, given that her throat didn't seem to be letting any air through to her lungs. And, for the first time in quite a while, she was taken by the way he looked, his dark hair attractively disheveled, his lips left relaxed in the aftermath of his smile, the strong curve of his jaw just a bit unshaven as the sun was going down. But more, she was taken by the way he was looking at her, and it disconcerted her, because he was looking at her like she meant the world to him, those serious eyes riveted on their target with organic gentleness.

"Hm," he said, but his quiet voice didn't break the spell. "It's been a while since I've managed to leave you speechless, hasn't it, Ms. Granger?"

She felt a smile form on her lips. "Yes," she said. "I thought you'd lost your touch." He opened his mouth to reply, but she interrupted, "Let me guess … Tom Riddle never loses his touch."

"I'm glad we understand each other," he said, his voice quieter than ever. And was that – was that warmth in the depths of his brown eyes?

Hermione leaned forward onto the bed with both forearms, looking down at her hands, which were twisted together, wringing nervously out of habit. "I'd say that saying I understand you is a bit of a stretch," she replied quietly.

She thought her heart would burst as his hand reached over to hers, stopping her agitated movement, and right then it felt like the world was still. So still, and as quiet as its quietest moment, right there, in the foot between their eyes. "I wouldn't," he said.

Hermione wanted to glance down at his hand, which was cradling hers gently, wanted to look down and recognize that it was Voldemort's hand that was on her own, but she couldn't look away from his eyes, and those eyes were not Voldemort's but Tom Riddle's, and Tom Riddle had a different hand entirely, one that felt nice as it lightly soothed her hand, one that sent shivers rocketing up her arms into every part of her body as its thumb lightly brushed over her knuckle, one that she didn't feel the slightest inclination to disengage.

Then she said, "I should get going."

He said, "I'll see you tomorrow, Hermione."

And she felt happy that those words were true.


	20. Chapter 20

"Hermione!"

Hermione couldn't keep the tears from her eyes as she embraced her friend. "I'm so glad you're awake," she sniffed, shaking the tears away. "I've missed you so much." Miranda's arms felt frail and weak as they hugged Hermione close.

"I've missed... lot," Miranda said, and Hermione saw a distinctly miserable look wander over her face.

"I'm so sorry," whispered Hermione. "That's a lot to wake up to."

"Like... bad dream," admitted Miranda. "It was my own stupid fault... course... but I did have to see... for my next piece of writing, see..."

Hermione sighed. "You scared us awfully, you know."

"Talk to me, Hermione," said Miranda in a slightly slurred voice. "Not making much sense... potions and all... but I miss your voice."

Hermione brushed back her hair. "Well... Albus and Godric aren't speaking with me."

Miranda frowned. "Why? 's not like Albus."

"Well, I – I'm healing Tom Riddle," said Hermione quietly, the secret rising off her chest like a lead weight being lifted. "He should have been dead, like you, but I've helped him almost get back to normal, and Albus _hates_ Tom, so I haven't been able to find the guts to tell him."

Miranda raised her light brown eyebrows.

Hermione nodded. "I know. But I just – I know you and Albus are so close," she sighed. "I just –please don't tell them. Albus because – well, yes, and Godric – Godric's taking Mina moving on about as well as expected, and he and Mina never liked Riddle... and I know he's not talking to me, but I think he would get really mad if he thought I was ignoring him because of a Slytherin."

Miranda nodded sagely. "'m sorry 'bout your pers'nal life, Hermione."

"I just wish my friends would like each other," replied Hermione, with a bitter smile. Then the sourness left her expression, as she said, "but I'm so, so, so glad you're back. And look what I found."

Hermione pulled out a book from inside her robes, and flipped carefully to the marked page. A picture of a tremendous owl sitting next to a man was on the left half of the page. The owl was at least three feet tall. "You were right about the Budgeon Eagles."

Miranda smiled. "I knew I was," she sighed contentedly, and with that, she gently drifted off to sleep. Hermione smiled gently and left the book on top of Miranda's bed.

"Thanks, you two," she said to Mungo and Jared. They nodded.

She, Mungo, and Jared, had never really gotten back on steady footing after she'd yelled at them about Riddle. She was stunned, however, that Jared Pippin had managed to keep his mouth shut about the entire affair, given his usual blabbermouthed affinity. Hermione secretly suspected that Mungo had helped with that.

When Hermione reached Riddle's room, Abraxas, Herpo and Revelend were already inside, marveling at the perfect skin that had grown back into place.

"Hermione," Abraxas said fiercely as she walked in the door, "you are an absolute miracle worker." He engulfed her in a tight hug and ruffled her hair.

"Unhand me, villain," said Hermione's muffled voice. Abraxas laughed and let her loose. "And I'm not a miracle worker, just a hard worker. There is a distinct difference."

Revelend held out a solemn hand, his sea-green eyes very serious. Hermione shook it, stifling a chuckle. Revelend was such a stiff, sort of stern type, except when he was messing with Herpo.

"Does this mean he can move now?" Herpo asked.

"_He_ is sitting right here, Herpo," Riddle said from the bed, and Herpo turned around in mild alarm. "And no. Hermione told me I couldn't move yet, for some reason involving obscure anatomy that I don't entirely believe."

Hermione shrugged. "Fine, Tom, go ahead and move. Unless the mindless pain that ensues is a bit of a distraction."

He sighed, picking idly at a fingernail. "I just don't understand _why_ it still hurts, and you've failed to provide any sort of adequate explanation."

"Oh, stop whining. It's because I don't understand it either, really," said Hermione patiently, "but it probably has something to do with your nervous system, which, I don't need to remind you, we still haven't even started on, so it'll be a few days yet. Plus, there's quite a bit of scabbing and clumps of blood in there that need to get cleared up and dissolved naturally, which is probably part of it."

"Well," said Abraxas, "I'm just happy that damned hole is gone, personally."

"That makes two of us," agreed Hermione. "So, Abraxas, want to watch Riddle take the foulest potion ever made? It's for nerve rebuilding." A wicked smile spread across her face.

"I'd love to," Abraxas said, "but we were just leaving. I've called Quidditch practice for today, since the Ravenclaws are off the field for a damn change."

Hermione nodded. "I'll see you later," she said, as the other three streamed out of the door, and they waved jovially.

"You," said Riddle, "are late."

"I am not _late_ just because I'm not here when you wake up. And even if I did need an excuse, which I don't—Miranda's awake."

Riddle raised his eyebrows. "Really. That's news."

"I spoke with her and everything. She's a bit woozy, but that's to be expected, I suppose."

Riddle nodded. "Did she have any incredibly twisted month-long dreams?"

Hermione laughed. "You would ask that. No, she did not." She flipped open Healing Handicraft Edition Nine and turned to the section on nerves to double-check. "According to this book, nerves are mainly repaired by potion use, so I can just give you this once a day and that's all I have to do. Thus, the potion." She pointed to an unpleasantly orange potion which was bubbling slowly on the bedside table. It had the consistency of lumpy oatmeal. "I might stick around, though, to relieve you from your boredom," she said carefully.

A hint at a smile appeared on Riddle's face. "I appreciate the sentiment."

Hermione sat on the bed and placed the cold opening of the bottle to Riddle's mouth, tipping it back slowly. An expression of absolute revulsion came across his face, but he drank until she tilted it forwards. "That is the most disgusting thing that I have ever had the misfortune to taste. What did you do, combine mud with essence of dead frog or something?"

"Exactly. Glad to see your potions knowledge is so extensive." He gave her the evil eye and then returned to looking miserable. Hermione set the bottle on his table again, and said, "Don't worry; you only have to take it twice more. Once a day, two more days. At least, that's how long it should take for your nerves to get back in order, and then the pain will go away, and the clotting should be dissolved, too, so you should be able to stand up."

He stuck out his bottom lip childishly. "Fine," he said.

Hermione smiled. "Surely, Tom Riddle is not so easily defeated?"

His serious features returned to their usual state, and he tilted his head, scrutinizing her. "You know very well that Tom Riddle is never defeated by anything."

Hermione sighed. "You really have no idea how nice it is not to have to look at your chest like that for hours on end."

"Yes," Riddle said with a smirk. "I'll bet you don't mind looking at it now, though." He was right, of course, but that didn't stop Hermione from blushing at his unexpectedly predatory words.

"Your overconfidence stuns at every turn."

He sighed. "Listen. I've come up with a plan for you to get back to Earth, and it has promise."

Hermione swallowed and sat back in her armchair, leaning idly on the bed. "Do tell," she said, although she felt strangely disinclined to listen to his idea.

"Well, you were a Secret-Keeper, right?" he asked carefully. He had seen her performing the Fidelius Charm twice, though he had moved on from those snippets of memory too quickly to have been able to tell what the secrets themselves had been.

She nodded. "You don't know the secret, though, do you?" she asked, fear spreading through her.

"No. I was going to propose that you write down the secret on yourself somewhere, and then Obliviate it from your memory."

Hermione stared at him. "Wh—what?"

"Well, I thought, perhaps if you were to cast a memory charm on yourself to rid yourself of the information completely, it would ensure that the secret was better-kept, thus strengthening the bond of the Fidelius Charm," Riddle mused. Hermione realized what he was saying, and nearly kicked herself for not having thought of it.

"Of course."

Riddle nodded. "Also, if it worked – if you got taken back to earth as you are – it would be written on you, so there'd be little risk of it getting, say, lost in translation."

Hermione's heart beat hard. Her throat felt oddly tight. If there were anything relating to her specific instances that could possibly bring her back, this would be it. But she felt hesitant, for more than one reason. Even if she managed to write the secret down on herself, what if it were somehow removed? She would forget the secret of where Harry and Ron were forever – but there was another reason, a reason Hermione didn't really want to admit to herself:

She didn't want to leave.

A lot of it was probably just human survival instinct. Why would she want to leave this Hogwarts, this safe, secure Hogwarts, with all its comforts and charms, and return to the Hogwarts which was literally the place of her nightmares? A place where she had a good chance of getting tortured and killed - _again_? If she died again, would she get a chance to return to this median world, or would her soul, by that point, just give up hope and send her straight to death?

But there was that part of her that had no rationale to support its reasoning, that part of her that could not dare confess its viewpoint without being violently suppressed by the rest of her mind. It was the same part of her that itched and burned to feel his hand on hers again. And Hermione was very surprised to feel the sway that part of her had.

"I don't know," she sighed. "I'm... what if it somehow gets wiped off or something? No one would know the secret. And it's... it's very important."

Riddle shrugged. "You arrived here the same as when you were killed, right? I arrived in the same physical state. In fact, I still had my same robes."

"But... but if there's even the slightest chance," Hermione said determinedly, "I really don't want to risk it."

There was a bit of confusion in his dark eyes. "What's the secret about?"

Hermione bit her lip. "It's where someone's hidden. To keep them safe."

"Oh," he said, and frowned. "But surely they'd come out? If they saw that you were back?"

That was true, Hermione mused. If, somehow, she happened to stumble across Harry and Ron, they would both instantly come out of hiding to find her. They were good hiding spots, but Harry and Ron weren't stupid. They would be able to tell if it were her and not a Death Eater.

Death Eaters. Hermione had completely forgotten what it was like to live in a world where there were Death Eaters.

She buried her face in her hands as crippling memories flooded into her mind. _No, NO, STOP –_

"Hermione?" said Riddle sharply. That look on her face – he knew it well, for he had worn it often enough when recalling something too horrific to express. "Hermione. Look at me."

Her hands were shaking as they gripped her face, and she wasn't lifting her head to look at him. Riddle repeated, "_Look at me._"

Then she did, because he sounded cold and dangerous, but his voice was deceptive. When Hermione looked at him, she saw something she'd never seen before – worry. She swallowed, stared at his face, and attempted to concentrate on him, not on that scream for help, not on all those yells of pain, not on that one iron stake that had seemed to erupt from Neville's throat –

The image burst clear into her mind, and Hermione's eyes shot wide open, her mouth drifting downwards, sucking in shallow breaths. "Tom—"

His look of worry changed to alarm. "Hermione, it's okay. You're here. You're safe."

She managed to choke out, "I know _I'm_ safe -"

It was like someone had hit her on the back of the head. She pitched forward slightly, and her breathing picked up further.

_"HERMIONE!"_

_"GINNY, NO—NO—LET GO OF HER!" Hermione waved her wand wildly, and Avery flicked his, sending a spinning ball of chaotic darkness that whizzed by her, missing her by inches. His hand wound into Ginny's hair, dragging her alone into a classroom, a classroom with a lit fire and a glass full of Floo Powder sitting on that mantelpiece—and Hermione could _not_ let him get in there, not with Ginny, NOT GINNY–_

_ Then Hermione's legs were ripped out from under her in a swirl of black robe, and she was on the ground, Fenrir Greyback's slavering face inches from hers, but all Hermione could see was Ginny's pale, terrified face disappearing behind that door—"GINNY!"—"Shut up, you little bitch, Bellatrix's been looking for you," and Hermione raised her wand hand, but Fenrir's huge hand crushed it in his, and then her wand was stuffed in his pocket and she was dragged, kicking, sobbing, backwards down the hall—_

And then a warm, slender hand gripped hers fiercely, jerking her back to reality. Hermione lifted her head, erupting into a nauseating sweat, her hand limp in Tom's, and he stared intently at her. "Hermione, come back."

Come back.

Don't leave—come back.

How could she leave? How could she ever return to earth if it meant this, over and over, the pain, the terror—

"I can't go back," she whispered.

"You have to," he said. "You were never meant to be here."

Hermione swallowed. His dark eyes calmed her with their readiness, their omnipresent confidence. "I'm scared."

"You're a Gryffindor," said Riddle, his voice strong, his grip stronger. "You're brave to the point of idiocy, remember?"

"But – that's not everything." Maybe he would stop pushing her to return if he knew; maybe he would stop if he knew what she was feeling, even now, cold with sweat, her head spinning, if he knew the thing that was really holding her there—

"What is it?" he asked quietly. "Unless, I suppose, it hurts to talk about -"

"No, it doesn't—it's just, I don't know if I should -"

His grip loosened slightly, and some feeling returned to her hand. She moved her thumb and squeezed back, terrified of what she was about to tell him.

"There's one more reason I can't leave," she whispered, "and it's -"

She took a breath.

"It's—"

"What?" His tone wasn't even demanding, and that was what made her say it.

"You."

There was a very, very long silence. Riddle just looked at her. He didn't look surprised. He didn't look much of anything. He didn't let go of her hand.

Then he said, "Come on, Hermione—the only thing left is for me to finish taking that disgusting potion of yours. You shouldn't be hanging around as if someone's paying you."

She bit her lip and glanced down at the bed. "No," she said quietly. "Not you being hurt. Just you."

Then there was a flicker of something on his face, too quickly gone to identify. "What?" he said.

"Do I really need to spell it out further?" Hermione said, and realized that the memories had been pushed back down in the face of this new obstacle, an obstacle she never thought she'd have to face. "I don't... I don't want to leave you."

Riddle felt like his heart had completely stopped beating in utter bewilderment. Had she really just said that? Surely this was some sort of bizarre vision. Surely those words would never come from the lips of Hermione Granger, whom he had deceived, whom he had disrespected, whose _life_ he had _ruined_. He felt her slowly take her hand from his, and he didn't know why. He thought he heard a noise outside of the room, but he was too busy staring at Hermione to really register anything at all, as if she had just told him she had killed someone. There was nervous apprehension in every line of her face.

The words didn't even make sense to him. How could anyone have... _that type _of feeling for him once they got past the exterior? He bordered on psychosis, probably, as well as any other number of things, like paranoia, sadism – this was all simple fact. Did she even know what she was getting herself into?

"Did someone cast a Confundus Charm on you?" he asked, in all honesty.

He was practically glad to see her eyes narrow at him, but when she spoke, it was more craziness. "Look, I'm not joking around."

"Neither am I," Riddle said, raising an eyebrow. "You are far too functional for the likes of me."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "You're not as different as you'd like to think."

"Yes, I am, and that was a stupid thing to say, since you know it's a lie."

She sighed and rubbed at one of her eyes with a finger, like she was tired. "I just—I like you, Tom. I really do. And that may be a difficult concept for you to wrap your head around, but it's happened, and all I'm saying is now I feel that it may be more than just simple friendship." There. Surely that would get through to him, right? Logic. Even a touch of familiar sarcasm.

But as she glanced up at him, he was still looking like he was floundering around for driftwood in an ocean storm. "This wasn't a good idea," she said softly. "I'm going to go now."

She left. He didn't object.

xXxXxXxXx

_Ten Minutes Before_

"Shut up about Granger; I don't want to hear another word about it," said Abraxas through gritted teeth.

Araminta shrugged. "Look, Abraxas, I just don't see how you can associate yourself with the likes of her."

"For your information, the 'likes of her' is an intelligent, pleasant person," Abraxas managed. He was just about at tipping point. This was a Quidditch practice, not a gossip session, and especially not a slandering session for Hermione Granger. Not on his watch.

"Well, she's never going to get anywhere with that so-called intelligence," Araminta muttered. "She has no sense of ambition. Not to mention the Mudblood thing."

That did it. "You know what, Meliflua," said Abraxas, his tone dangerous, "she's already got something with that intelligence. Try the respect of the boy who won't even give you a second glance." With that, Abraxas turned on his heel, seething, and grabbed his broom from the rack, no longer waiting for the second Chaser rotation to finish. "I WANT TO SEE THAT QUAFFLE BLUR WHEN YOU PASS IT!" he yelled into the air, and kicked off.

Araminta stared after him with revulsion. Tom? Tom _respected_ the Mudblood? How on earth could she possibly merit a second glance from him, let alone _respect_?

She stalked off the pitch in outright mutiny. Tom hadn't been awake since the Dueling incident, supposedly, due to a nasty Sleeping Jinx, or so the rumors were saying. But maybe she could wake him up, _demand_ to know what Abraxas had been talking about. Riddle had once kissed her, and he was always polite and kind to her – why would Abraxas say that he didn't respect her? That was mean.

Araminta, like most Slytherins, knew who to ask about passwords and locked doors – Revelend Godelot. He was snoozing lightly in the common room, until Araminta slapped him sharply on the shoulder. He jerked awake, his floppy light brown hair jerking from his alarmed eyes as he glanced up to see who had disturbed him.

"What is it?" he asked with distaste, eyeing her as if she were a particularly large spider.

"I need the password to the Head Boy quarters."

Revelend frowned. "Why?"

"You don't need to know that," Araminta said, and drew her wand. Revelend nearly snorted in laughter, but then he realized he'd left his own wand in his dormitory, and Araminta's magic suddenly seemed a lot more dangerous.

He swallowed. Riddle had a secondary password on his own door; Araminta shouldn't be able to get in if he only gave her the first one. He considered lying, but he was a terrible liar, and that wand didn't look compromising. "Fine, fine, it's Ernest Hemingway. Don't ask why it's a Muggle author; I don't know."

Araminta smirked, put away her wand, and stalked off.

She sighed. She should have done this a lot sooner; even if Tom were still unconscious, she missed seeing his face. But Abraxas had been irritating about the whole thing, saying that he couldn't be disturbed, saying that he would wake up faster if the sleep were uninterrupted, whatever. Araminta rolled her eyes. Abraxas was so blunt and uncultured, for a Malfoy...

"Ernest Hemingway," she said, and that door she'd once seen Tom enter clicked. She opened it quietly.

There was a small hallway inside, with two doors – one reading HG, one reading HB. Presumably, the latter was Head Boy, Tom's room. She raised a hand to knock on the door, but she was utterly startled when she heard voices coming from inside.

It was his voice. His smooth, cultured voice. "...shouldn't be hanging around as if someone's paying you," he said quietly.

Then, another voice. "No. Not you being hurt. Just you." Araminta couldn't recognize it from just those words—they were rather quiet, after all—but it was a girl speaking. Araminta felt herself bubbling with rage. Why was a girl visiting him _before_ Araminta was? That just wasn't right. She lifted her hand again to knock, but he said,

"What?"

And the response brought several things crashing down upon Araminta.

"Do I really need to spell it out further?" sighed the girl's voice, and Araminta flinched as she realized whose voice that was. The Granger girl. Then, "I don't... I don't want to leave you."

Araminta actually took a step back. Her face was contorted in rage. Who the hell did she think she was? Preying on Tom while he was alone in his room, unable to get away from her? How could she be so low?

She briefly considered shouldering through the door and hexing Granger right then and there, but she thought better of it. No, she had a better idea – one that would get Granger out of his hair permanently. First those childish rumors she'd started, and now this – it had to stop.

Araminta left silently, working out the details in her mind, and she went down to the Potions classroom and began to work.

xXxXxXxXx

Hermione swallowed and closed her eyes. What sort of a reaction had she expected? Surely not something mutual. But just understanding would have been okay, acknowledgment that he understood he was important to her.

The girl in the mirror was preoccupied, her eyes faraway, her feathery hair more of a poof than usual, her features seeming even less attractive than usual. Hermione didn't like looking in mirrors for any extended amount of time, but after the events of today, it was especially bad. Hermione imagined it—if she were an incredibly handsome boy who were fully aware of his physical charms, and someone who looked like her professed some sort of romantic inclination for him—of course his reaction would be utterly stunned. He was probably taken by her audacity, that she would even think she was on the same plane as him. In fact, Riddle's ideal girl was probably some sort of empress or something, a cold co-ruler, like an ancient queen, a girl like one of those ruthless English queens, gorgeous and stately and merciless, not some extremely plain Gryffindor who—

Hermione rubbed at her eyes angrily. Her mind was not settled right today. Maybe she just needed some sleep – she hadn't gotten much last night. By the looks of the day, there were a few hours before sunset, just enough time for a satisfactory nap. Hermione flopped down onto her bed and closed her eyes, willing thoughts of that utter bewilderment on his face to just go away and leave her in peace, not to prickle at her self-esteem, not to ask her questions she knew she couldn't answer.

xXxXxXxXx

Riddle stared up at his canopy, changing its color with flicks of his wand, and he thought very hard.

The last week and a half, the week and a half he had been unable to plot anything, to do anything, because of his invalid status – it should have been unbearable, by all rights. It should have been constant suffering. But yesterday, when she had told him that his skin should repair itself now, he had almost felt displeased with the information, which made little to no sense. He should have rejoiced; he should have been cheered by the fact; he should have been grateful that he no longer had to sit in bed all day.

But, no. It was like he had wanted her not to say it, wanted her instead to say that she'd have to work on him a lot longer.

Yes, he enjoyed speaking with her. Yes, he enjoyed seeing her walk briskly into the room to bring him various meals. Yes, he enjoyed the contented silence in which they sat when she was working hard. He enjoyed observing that slight quirk at the left side of her mouth when she was concentrating. He enjoyed it when they were speaking about things that didn't matter, exchanging quick-witted banter like it was its own language. He enjoyed it when they spoke about things that mattered quite a lot, even through the unpleasant swoop of fear he felt when the topic was horcruxes, even through the terrible hollow feeling he got when she was talking about her life back before Hogwarts had gone bad. Even through that odd, inexplicable feeling he got when she would speak about that Ron boy and have traces of a wistful smile on her mouth.

So he enjoyed her company. He was grateful for her healing. But was that all?

Riddle didn't really know the feeling of being close to a girl in the first place. He had never bothered with attempting to get girls on his side back on earth, and then here, out of habit, he had steered clear of them. For most of his life, he had assumed that they were weak and generally not useful. Hermione was not weak, and definitely useful. That in itself made Riddle feel like she was better than any other girl he could think of, but there were things about her company that were just so dynamically separate from anything else he had ever had with another human being. The fact that she ordered him around, and didn't seem to care when he got mad about it. The fact that she seemed at ease around him... that, more than anything else, set her apart, and then she took that ease one step further, smiling, laughing, _teasing_ as if she could actually pretend to take him lightly. He wasn't entirely sure why that was an attractive trait to him. After all, didn't he usually love people prostrating themselves before him, begging for forgiveness? There was no way Hermione would ever do that, probably even if he tortured her.

His nose wrinkled at the thought. What an unappealing option. He marveled with a certain sense of nausea that he had once actually done that. Thank Merlin it had only been for perhaps five minutes; if it had been for longer, then he would feel... he would feel _bad_, actually, and that was a strange new truth. He would feel angry at himself. What? How was that productive, to get angry at oneself? Especially for him, especially since he had no one other than himself to turn –

Except that part was now no longer true.

One of the chief reasons he had always restricted traitorous emotion was that he was solo, alone in absolutely everything, a one-man show, so to speak. But now there was someone else, someone who would help him carry his burdens, someone he trusted—he had said it himself—and someone he genuinely _liked_.

Still, even if he had found he liked her as a friend, after much introspection – how was he supposed to know if he liked Hermione Granger in a romantic sense? That was an unbelievably alien concept. How could she expect him to wrap his mind around it? That was unfair of her, to do that.

Well, where to start? Riddle had never thought Araminta Meliflua could be particularly useful, but she was constantly speaking about love and romance and drippy things like that, so he had a bit of a starting point. Supposedly, when one saw their romantic interest, they felt the irrepressible desire to smile.

Well, that was stupid. Riddle didn't just break out into a _smile,_ like some brainwashed idiot. But he did feel a subtle sort of relief when he saw Hermione open his door. In fact, when it had been Abraxas, Herpo and Revelend instead of her, he had even sort of felt a bit put off, like he had been disappointed.

When someone touched their romantic interest in any way, supposedly there was a physical reaction. Riddle couldn't deny that that was true, because just the day before, when he had taken her hand, he had felt a strange jump in his chest to feel her soft skin under his, and he couldn't help remembering in vivid detail what it had been like to kiss her. That kiss, where there had _definitely_ been a physical reaction, a twisting, uncontainable physical reaction, starting in the pit of his stomach and curling its way all the way down to the tips of his fingers where they had been on her shoulders... yes, that criterion was more than fulfilled; it was exemplified.

Also, one was constantly determined to be in the presence of their romantic interest. Riddle realized that this, too, was true. He would rather be around Hermione than be alone, and _much_ rather be around her than anyone else he could think of. This could explain why he had felt a bit conflicted about the idea of being healed, by the idea of Hermione not having to come and see him anymore, not feeling like it was necessary to be around him.

Because – he wondered at the notion – he almost felt like it was necessary to be around her, and if there were to be any indicator as to his feelings towards her, Riddle felt like that was it.

xXxXxXxXx

Hermione woke up as the sun was setting, refreshed. She wondered briefly if she should go and check on Tom, just to make sure the potion hadn't gone horribly wrong, but hunger made her decide not to, and she instead walked down to the Great Hall for a quick dinner.

Had it just been a couple hours ago she'd told him what she felt? Such a strange notion, such a bizarre development. Hermione wondered if he understood what that entailed, the feelings she got when his hand gripped hers, beyond all logical reasoning, beyond anything but pure emotion, emotion she didn't think she'd ever feel after Ron – that same emotion she'd stamped on when it had started to move within her with R.J...

So why had she allowed it, subconsciously, to grow roots inside her with Tom Riddle? Perhaps because she'd completely discounted the idea the very first time it had even been suggested by that part of her mind, perhaps because the entire concept was so utterly absurd. Ron had made so much sense. Ron had been so sturdy, the opposite of nonsensical—the logical proceeding step. The way she'd seen Ron grow, the way she and Ron had been through so much together—they'd been destined; they'd been meant to be. This was such an opposite. A polar opposite, like light and pitch blackness, like cool water and harsh flame, like sitting down on a warm bed and diving headfirst off a cliff. It didn't even make sense, Hermione thought angrily, that the idea would have a hold in her, let alone be realized! Let alone feeling at home when she walked into his room, let alone wanting to feel his warm skin with a hot jet of desire shooting through her—

Hermione sat down at the Gryffindor table with a sigh, pulling a plate towards her. She glanced up at the Slytherin table, up at the spot where Riddle had used to sit every day...

Then she realized Araminta Meliflua was looking at her strangely, and she stopped staring blankly at the Slytherin table and went back to eating. She glanced over – Godric and Albus weren't at dinner. She sighed. They would probably never speak to her again if she became romantically involved with Tom Riddle. Hermione had been a bit surprised, initially, when Godric had revealed his intense dislike for him, but that had faded into a bit of an understanding – to Godric, every Slytherin was a Slytherin, and little more. _That must have been some fight between him and Salazar..._

Hermione wondered why he was staying away from her, even after Mina had moved on – she had assumed that it was because they'd been a couple that they were ignoring her completely. It wasn't fair, Hermione thought miserably. She hadn't done anything to make him dislike her. She'd always thought that she got along very well with Godric, in fact.

She stood up and exited the Great Hall, and then things changed.

xXxXxXxXx

"Godric, I've been curious about this for a while," said Albus, still looking calmly at the sleeping Miranda.

"Yeah?"

"What other evidence do you have that Hermione Granger is romantically involved with Tom Riddle?"

At the mention of Riddle's name, Godric's face slowly turned a furious red. "I really don't want to talk about that, mate."

Albus shrugged. "I'm just wondering – you only saw one kiss. Since then, you haven't seen her doing anything of the sort?"

"Well, no," admitted Godric.

Albus nodded sagely and ran a hand through his hair. He was worried about Hermione's relationship with Riddle, but he hadn't really thought they were romantically involved. They hadn't even been seen together in public, and in fact, Albus hadn't seen much of Hermione in the last couple weeks at all. It was common knowledge that Riddle was under a Sleeping Jinx, so she wouldn't have the chance to associate with him. Albus felt like now was the best time for him and Godric to start attempting to repair their friendship with the girl.

Jared Pippin walked over, placing a potion bottle to Miranda's mouth and slowly tipping it backwards. His blue eyes watched the conversation with a bit of interest, but neither Godric nor Albus noticed him – both were too wrapped up in their own thoughts.

"I just – I can't even think about Hermione kissing someone who cast Crucio on Mina," Godric said in a low voice, "without wanting to throw up, or kill her, or both. At least she hasn't been doing it since after Mina moved on – that would be so … so disrespectful."

"But Hermione doesn't know about Riddle using the Cruciatus Curse, right?" Albus asked quietly.

"Yes, she does," interrupted Jared from the bedside. Both Godric and Albus' heads whipped around to look at him.

"What – how do _you_ know about that?" hissed Godric, casting a paranoid glance around the Infirmary. If Jared Pippin knew, then Godric was surprised the entire castle didn't know by this point.

"Me and Mungo saw it," Pippin said.

Godric remembered. He and Mina had been on their way to the Infirmary to see Miranda at that point, before Riddle had followed them. Godric swallowed, remembering how brave Mina had been about the whole situation...

"But... how does Hermione know?" Godric asked hollowly.

Pippin shrugged. "Dunno, mate, but Mungo and I mentioned it to her, and she didn't even look surprised," he said. "By the way – Miranda will be able to leave tomorrow, as long as she comes back here or goes down to the potions room twice a day to get her Rejuvenation Boost." Then, he retreated into the back room.

Godric was very, very confused then. He hadn't actually seen Hermione associating with Riddle after that night – he had just sort of assumed she was, really, and he had been so worried for Mina's safety that he hadn't wanted to do anything to endanger her... and then, after Mina had – well, after she had... Godric had just been so mad; he was still so mad about everything... could it be that Hermione had found out about the Cruciatus and refused to associate with Riddle after that?

"Albus, I think I've made a mistake," Godric said quietly.


	21. Chapter 21

When Hermione awoke, she felt like it was definitely the next day. The sizeable lump on the back of her head indicated that she would have been out for a while.

She was in the potions classroom, for some weird reason, and stranger was the fact that her hands were chained behind her back and to the wall.

Hermione bit back the memories that threatened to surface at the familiar feeling of metal around her wrists. Why the hell was she here? Who had knocked her out after she'd left the Great Hall? There were two large cauldrons sitting on a table several feet away. One potion was a suspicious maroon color, and the other was bright gold, and Hermione couldn't recognize them just by looking. She could see that there was a long, thin, metal box next to the cauldron on the left, and Hermione could guess that her wand was in there, seeing as it definitely wasn't in her pocket.

"Accio," Hermione murmured, giving a bit of a jerk of her head. It had worked that one time when it was relatively near – though, of course, it was in a metal box this time–

Yes. She heard a small rattling noise coming from the box, but the box was too heavy to be moved by her feeble wandless spell.

Hermione blew at her hair, her brow furrowing. She attempted to suppress her apprehension. Who would go to the trouble of doing this, and then not even be there when she woke up? What time was it? What _day _was it?

Panic started to boil inside her.

xXxXxXxXx

Riddle yawned. No one was in his room, for a change. This was the first time he'd woken and been completely alone. Abraxas was probably at Quidditch or something, and Hermione was likely visiting her friend, though she'd said something to the effect of her friend being able to leave the Infirmary after yesterday, according to the Healers...

Oh, well. She'd said today he would be taking half of the remaining potion. He might as well get it over with.

With a twinge of discomfort, Riddle reached over for the glass. He held his breath, watched the potion, and drank until it looked about half-gone. When he breathed in, that revolting taste flooded back into his mouth, and he gagged a bit.

Putting the bottle back on the bedside table with a glare at its contents, Riddle moved his arm back to his side. The clock on his wall read that it was eleven in the morning, and that was bizarre indeed. Hermione had never arrived after nine o'clock.

He blew his hair out of his eyes, suddenly hoping that he hadn't scared her off by not responding to what she'd told him. Surely, though, she hadn't expected any sort of brilliant response, not when she'd just sprung it on him like that.

Suddenly, he heard the doorknob rattle. "Took you long enough," he drawled. "So much for your so-called perfect punctuality—"

He broke off with a frown. The door wasn't opening. But Hermione knew that the password was his birthday; what was she waiting for? "Hermione?" he said tentatively, his low voice with just a tinge of a morning scratch at its edges.

The response was an unpleasant surprise. "No, Tom, it's me," Araminta's voice replied.

"...Oh," said Riddle after a second. How had she even gotten past the first door? Well, he wouldn't be telling her the password to the second. He flicked his wand, and his door opened quietly, revealing Araminta. It had been so long since he'd seen any girl besides Hermione that Araminta looked a bit startling, her narrow features sort of bizarre to look at. "Hello. Is there... do you need something?"

Araminta sighed. Tom was always so selfless. He would be happy when she told him she was finally going to get that clinging girl out of his hair. "No, Tom, actually, I came to tell you some good news," she sighed, sitting in Hermione's armchair.

Riddle felt a sudden urge to tell Araminta to get out of that chair, that that was not her seat, but he restrained it and waited politely for her to elaborate.

"I just wanted to tell you that you don't have to worry about that girl coming and cornering you while you're ill anymore." She gave her sweetest smile.

Riddle felt cold dread seeping into his body, an unfamiliar sensation. "What do you mean?" he asked, not letting any expression show on his face, but – Merlin help her if she'd done anything to Hermione –

Araminta stood up. "Don't worry about it," she said, smiling again. "I have everything under control, and now you can recover in peace without having to worry about unwanted visitors."

Riddle was too unsettled even to enjoy the irony of the phrase 'unwanted visitors'. What the hell was she talking about? "What did you do?" he asked, restraining his alarm with difficulty.

"Nothing." Araminta walked to the door. "Yet." She shut it behind her.

He sat there for what felt like a full fifteen minutes, ice seeping through his veins. What could he do? What was Araminta going to try to do? Plan – what was his plan? He had no contact with anyone unless they actively sought him out. Abraxas sometimes didn't come until late afternoon, and by then, Araminta could have hurt Hermione.

The thought filled Riddle with nausea. He couldn't let that happen – he owed her enough not to let that happen. Damned if some vengeful witch was going to attack the girl who had singlehandedly patched Tom Riddle back together. Damned if he was going to replay that day back when he knew nothing about her, that day when he stood by and let Araminta's friend practically drown Hermione, not caring as he saw her lying there half-dead, not caring as she let out gasps for air, only being interested in the fact that she could fix her own broken nose and walk back to the castle as if nothing had happened.

He reached to the corner of his covers and pulled them off himself. The sudden motion sent pain running through his arm, but he gritted his teeth. That would just be the start of it... could he really do this? Could he risk his own body, his own safety, to save some girl?

Well, she had done it for him, so perhaps if he did this his debt would be repaid.

He rotated himself so his legs were over the side of the bed. Then he bent his knees, with a tremendous crack. He elevated himself up onto his arms with a strangled noise of pain. His entire chest felt like it was being violently pricked with needles.

His bare feet hit the stone, and he rose, standing tall at six feet for the first time since he'd been cursed. His arm gripped the bedpost, and he took a step.

Riddle cursed repeatedly. The slight shock that the step sent up through his body somehow swelled into a crescendo of agony as it traveled through his chest. He could feel, very precisely, where the hole had been. He could have drawn it on his bare chest if someone had handed him a quill, and every piece of skin within that region felt on fire with cacophonic discomfort.

He flicked his wand, summoning his shirt, and put it on slowly, not making any sudden movements, tentative in every slow motion. He stepped into his shoes, but he couldn't bend over to fix them, so he just waved his wand and gritted his teeth as the shoes rammed themselves onto his feet. Oh, _Merlin –_

He took a couple tiny, agonizing steps towards the door, and on second thoughts, sat in Hermione's armchair and levitated it out the door into the hallway.

Even just sitting upright was incredibly painful. Riddle's left hand clutched at his stomach as if his innards would fall out, which they felt like they would at any second. He breathed shallowly – any other way hurt terribly – and his heart seemed to be beating at twice its regular speed, erratic, nauseated—

His right hand trembled to keep the chair levitated, which was humiliating—this was the most elementary of elementary magics, but he couldn't seem to keep his hand upright; his biceps strained and his deltoids worked hard just to keep his forearm off the armrest.

Riddle gritted his teeth as the chair sped down the Grand Staircase. Only one person had seen him, a Ravenclaw girl, and she'd given him a very strange glance. It had to be almost comical, watching Tom Riddle flying down the hallway in an orange armchair, looking like he was about to die...

He navigated the chair down to the dungeons, his hand shaking in earnest now. His face was contorted in pain, and about twenty feet from the Slytherin common room, he had to drop his hand, and the chair dipped and finally dropped out of the air with a terrible skid on the stone, sending Riddle toppling to the floor.

He let out a strangled yell, feeling like everything inside him was getting jumbled up together, feeling like his skin would pop open and blood would run out in a great stream – but no, his left hand was firmly on his abdomen, and it was intact still...

Gritting his teeth, Riddle staggered to his feet, his eyes clenched shut. He squinted through a sort of clear red pain and said the password to the common room. He almost thought it would have changed, but no – he was able to enter with no problem.

Revelend and Herpo were lounging on the sofa, and Revelend looked over to see who had come in and did a double take.

"Merlin—are you alright?"

They both got to their feet instantly, but Riddle grappled at the mantelpiece for support and just growled, "Araminta. Araminta, where is she—"

Herpo said instantly, "She said something about a potion, but she didn't say where she was going -"

But at the word 'potion,' Riddle was already leaving, bent over most alarmingly, his legs not seeming to support him. Herpo and Revelend exchanged disturbed glances.

xXxXxXxXx

Hermione kicked at the wall one more time, and then just sat on the ground helplessly. Whoever her captor was, they still hadn't made themselves known, though Hermione had a bit of a theory at this point. After all, hadn't Godric said that Araminta's forte was potions? Hermione eyed the cauldrons warily, and then, at last, the door opened.

Her fears were confirmed as Araminta walked into the classroom, smirking. "You're awake," she said. "Shame."

"You're alive," Hermione replied. "Shame."

Araminta laughed, completely surprising Hermione. "Your audacity shall not be missed." She grabbed two beakers from the table and filled them, one beaker for each potion, and then placed them with a clink onto the table nearest Hermione.

Araminta drew her wand. Hermione swallowed.

"Before you do whatever you're going to do, might I just ask you _why_?" Hermione asked.

Araminta sighed. "I've told you so many times to stay away from Tom Riddle. I know he's probably too nice to reject you outright – like yesterday. But you really should have let the silence tell you everything." She flicked her wand and said, "Vinculum Minima," just as Hermione's jaw dropped. This turned out to be quite unfortunate, because Hermione froze in place just like that, with her mouth slightly open, and Araminta picked up the maroon potion, eyeing it.

"I'm not going to waste time telling you what these do," Araminta said. "You'll find out soon enough, anyway."

And, so saying, she advanced on Hermione, leaned her frozen body back a bit, and tipped the potion down her throat. Hermione felt her gag reflex attempting to get rid of it, but she couldn't move to help spit it out, so it trailed down into her stomach, hot and bubbling. Fear filled Hermione's mind. What was this? It didn't hurt; not yet, anyway – and the other potion followed after, bright gold. The former tasted like lead, the second like nothing at all.

Araminta sighed and waved her wand, muttering a counterspell, and Hermione found she could move again. "What did you do?" she whispered, a strange sensation hissing up and down her limbs.

"You'll see," said Araminta, flipping an hourglass upside down. "You've probably got about three minutes before it's done."

Hermione went insane, yanking at her chains until they drew blood from her wrists, her face screwed up in utter rage. "I've never done a _thing_ to you!" she screamed. "What the _hell_ is wrong with you?"

Araminta sighed. "Exactly the type of histrionics I seek to eliminate." She raised her wand again. "Well, might as well mix them up nice and well._ Rendira._"

Hermione's eyes widened, and pain suddenly struck her gut like a tidal wave, like her stomach was contorting. She dropped to her knees and fell to the side, her eyes tight shut – but it was over so much faster than she'd thought. In fact, she heard the door burst open, and then it stopped with great instantaneity.

"Tom?" she heard Araminta's voice say incredulously, and Hermione's eyes shot open, searching. Her eyes fell on the hourglass. There were a good two minutes left—

"Tom?" Hermione whispered.

He was in the doorway, sweaty and pained-looking, and as he walked over, he looked like every step was the hardest step of his life. His wand was in his shaking hand. "Get out," he said to Araminta. "_Get out_."

There was cold ice in his voice, coldness that Araminta hadn't ever heard, and she scampered with a terrified glance back at him, utterly mystified.

Riddle swayed and leaned against the wall, sliding down into a sitting position, and he tapped Hermione's chains with his wand. They vanished. "What did she do?" he murmured, his pained expression digging at Hermione.

"I don't know. She poured both of those potions down my throat, and then said I had _that _much time before—" She pointed at the hourglass. "I'm sorry about yesterday," she said frantically, as she pulled herself to her knees, facing him. Her body felt watery. Maybe they were poisons, and she would fall into a coma, or something. "I never meant to – I don't know what I was – you shouldn't even be out of bed! I -"

He put a finger to her lips, a trembling finger. "I don't know what those potions are," he said, his voice throaty and pained, "but just in case -"

His finger dropped away, his eyes suddenly filled with that which Hermione had only ever seen once before, and then he was kissing her.

Something alit inside her, and she was afraid that it was something to do with the potion, but no – it was just an incredibly strong pang inside her, to be as close to him as possible, to be as close to him for as long as she could –

She kissed him back, leaning into him, unable to breathe, dizzied, frantic –

Then Hermione's gaze fell on the hourglass. There couldn't have been more than a few seconds left.

She looked back at Tom. Their eyes met, and Hermione closed her eyes, leaned forward, and pressed her lips back to his. A knot formed in Hermione's chest, one of her hands reaching up to trace the line of his face, but he broke the kiss, and she opened her eyes... and even as her hand was inches from his face, she definitely didn't see anything there.

His dark eyes opened, and he swayed, clutching at his chest, and he whispered, "Hermione?"

His eyes searched, but they did not focus on her. Hermione tried to say something, but she could not. Then she knew what the potions were, entirely too late – that maroon potion was a Dissolution Solution, causing permanent invisibility, and the gold was a Silencer, meant to do exactly what the name suggested. No potion was without antidote, of course, but it was a marvel that Araminta knew these, and Hermione couldn't think of where one would find an antidote... perhaps in the Restricted Section –

Riddle looked utterly lost, and in unbelievable pain. "Hermione?" he repeated.

She reached out and put her hand on his shoulder, frantically mouthing, trying to speak, but her voice was just _gone_...

His hand reached up and grabbed hers, his eyes scouring the space right in front of him. "Are you – you're there?"

She needed a wand. Hermione reached out and took his from the ground. It turned invisible as she lifted it, and Hermione closed her eyes in irritation. Casting _Flagrate_, she wrote in the air. Immense relief flooded his face as he read the words.

_I'm not hurt. The maroon is a Dissolution Solution. The gold is a Silencer. I'm right here._

Still, though – the way his eyes could not focus on her, the way his hand held hers, as if she were already gone – it was incredibly frustrating. "You can hear me?" he said.

She rolled her eyes and lifted the wand again. _Yes, you idiot, it wasn't a Deafening Draught._

A smirk curled his lip, and he moved a little, and then he let out a loud "Ah" of pain, his hand moving down to press against his stomach.

Tom's wand was unfamiliar in her hand. Hermione flicked it experimentally, and that metal box on the table soared over to her. Hermione tapped it, Vanishing it, and grabbed her own wand with immense relief.

She placed Riddle's wand back into his pale hand and removed her other hand from his gently. "Hermione," he said sharply, "don't leave."

She wrote quickly in the air, _I'm not leaving, but you need to get back to bed. Now._

A half-smile worked its way onto his pained features. Riddle shook his head. She _would_ be thinking about his safety even as she was invisible and mute. He placed one hand to the wall and unsteadily got back to his feet, and blinked as a stretcher appeared in front of him, hovering a couple feet off the ground. Unsteadily, he laid down, and the stabbing pains dulled into a steady ache. Then he started to speed to the door, guided by Hermione, though he couldn't see her.

The castle passed in a blur of cool breeze and clicking door, and before he knew it he was back in his bed, the pain nearly all gone. The stretcher vanished, and the familiar orange armchair appeared out of nowhere, the seat cushion depressing slightly with Hermione's invisible weight. "Don't sit there," Riddle said quietly. "It doesn't feel like you're here." He saw the cushion rise again.

Then, words were writing themselves into the air. _Well, then, where shall I sit? Would you like to draw me a diagram? _He could practically hear her voice saying it.

"How about here?" he suggested, indicating the space next to him on the bed.

There was a bit of a pause, and then he felt a weight lowering itself onto the bed, and he felt a jacket-clad arm touching his. He raised his hand tentatively and placed it on the arm, sliding his fingers down until he could feel hers in them. "Better," he said quietly.

More words. She wrote quickly and messily. _I can't believe you got out of your bed. What a terrible idea._

He let out a wry chuckle. "Yet I don't think that's my main problem right now," he said, and turned his head to the blank space next to him. "Do you know of an antidote to this idiocy?"

_No._

He sighed, gripping her hand in near-disbelief. He couldn't fathom how much he missed _seeing_ her right then, missed the light freckles on her face, missed her snub nose and those pink, smiling lips, her honest brown eyes, her incredibly large hair. Even if he had just been able to hear her voice, it might have been bearable, but no – Araminta had left no leeway at all. She had probably been planning on just leaving Hermione there, too, in that classroom, chained to the wall and unable to use a wand. It was an evil plan indeed, and very vindictive for Araminta – serious stuff, not the small jealous things of before...

Hermione wrote, _Araminta heard what I told you yesterday._

"Oh," he said. That explained the disparity.

Then more writing. _You kissed me._ A pause. _Again._

Riddle looked up at his canopy, sighing. "Would you have preferred that I didn't?"

_No._

"So your point is...?"

_It was just surprising,_ she wrote. _You looked uneasy when I told you yesterday._

"Well, it was just surprising," he replied with a smirk, and he swore she was scowling, though of course he couldn't tell.

Then, _I really don't want to leave,_ she wrote.

Riddle sighed. "It's your choice. I mean, it's your life. Everything is your choice, I suppose, although I really don't think that I'm an appropriate or adequate subs–"

And then the mattress moved a little, and he felt warm lips cover his own, and his eyes widened in surprise before he closed them. His hands rose tentatively and he could feel her face, smooth, soft, and he breathed in slowly through his nose, inhaling that smell of her, before sliding one hand slowly back into her coarse hair, pressing his lips deeper against hers in sinful delight. Blood seemed to be throbbing its way into strange places in his body, places that were unused to being recognized, like the very outermost skin of his lips, which felt so sensitive as her mouth moved slightly over his, slipping and melting and burning. He heard her breath, though there was no voice behind it, and he heard the shift of her hand on the pillow, and suddenly there were small, cool fingers on his cheek, and it was as if someone had turned up his body heat uncomfortably high, and he kissed her with fevered, aching lips, unable to form a single coherent thought –

She pulled away, and he let out an angry groan. "Hermione," he whispered, "what are you doing?"

_I need to check something._

"Check something?" he said exasperatedly, and then suddenly the front of his shirt was opening, and a smirk spread onto his lips. "You're a lot braver when you're invisible," he commented, and an invisible fist knocked him on the shoulder. He rubbed it ruefully.

He felt a hand on his bare chest, and like that hand was a burning brand, it seemed to be all he could feel for a second. Then he felt the familiar tap of a wand on his skin, and he rolled his eyes. "Are you _actually_ checking my—"

Her other hand covered his mouth, and his dark eyes narrowed. "You are being incredibly irksome," he mumbled, his muffled voice completely lacking the menace it should have possessed. He lay his head back on his pillow, frustrated.

The wandtip moved around a bit, and then withdrew. More words appeared. _Luckily, you don't seem to have ruined everything by your attempt at being selfless,_ she wrote. _In fact, as long as you don't move today and still take your potion tomorrow, the result should still be your being able to get out of bed after you wake up Thursday._

He nodded. "Lovely, I'm sure," he said, his voice filled with his laziest boredom. "Now would you just -"

Riddle's eyes fell on her wand, which suddenly appeared on the bedside table as she put it down. Then, a sudden rush of air into his face. He closed his eyes and breathed in that excellent smell, that smell that was so _alive._

He stared upwards tentatively, and then slowly lifted his head, closing his eyes. Yes. She was there, and the kiss was sweeter than short-term memory could possibly impress upon him. Slowly, his eyes closed, he laid his head back on the pillow, dragging her down with him. He felt her leg pressed against his side, felt her wrists brushing his shoulders, and he moved to the right, kissing up her smooth face until he reached her ear.

"Touch me," he murmured, his nose buried in her hair. He felt her freeze. "You're blushing," he guessed, a dark smile in his voice, and then he put a hand lightly to her face and found her lips again, and kissed them. "It's okay," he said. Her hand pressed against his chest and trailed lightly to his shoulder, and the touch left blisters in its wake, decimated every nerve ending in its path with its cool, gentle caress. He made an accidental noise against her lips, making her pause, before he tilted his head and kissed her harder.

Thoughts slowly made their way back into his mind, but they were not thoughts that he would usually think while kissing a girl. _This could be the best thing I have ever done. This could only be improved if I were able to see her face. This is more than I ever thought it could be._ And he didn't push away the ideas, but let them engulf him, sweep him entirely from his usual plane of thought into a place where he felt that only her smell, only her touch, where only the feeling of her against him mattered.

She dug a hand into his hair and moved it back, sending shivers itching their way down his spine, making his back arch towards her, and he frowned a bit in pain. He reached up his hands and slid them down her sides, and then he held her tight against him, pressing down on her back until he could feel her against his bare chest, ignoring the pain of the weight on him. And there was nothing for him but her.

xXxXxXxXx

Two days passed, and the first thing Riddle did when he could stand was make his way up to the Infirmary, Hermione close behind him.

"Riddle," Jared greeted uneasily, staring in open shock at his being awake.

"I need an antidote," Riddle said calmly, surveying the other boy with a cool gaze. He had forgotten how easy it was to tell what people were thinking, how easy it was to order them around. "It's for Hermione," he continued. "As you can see, she's invisible."

Jared looked at him like he was crazy. Riddle sighed. "Hermione, could you -"

Words wrote themselves into the air even as Jared was thinking that Tom Riddle was a bit touched in the head. _Hello, Jared. Araminta Meliflua gave me a Dissolution Solution, I regret to say, and I'd greatly appreciate it if you could help me out._

"I – uh – s-sure," stammered Jared, "but I don't think I have an antidote for that." He was a bit scared – well, more than a bit, actually – to see a dark look come across Riddle's face.

"Well, can you brew one?" Riddle asked. "Or do you have the instructions, so I may brew it myself?"

Pippin nodded. "I think you should be able to find it in the Restricted Section," he said. "There's this one book called Moste Lamentable Maladies of the Afflicted that should have something to that effect."

Riddle gave him a curt nod and turned on his heel. Hermione rolled her eyes and followed. It wouldn't hurt Riddle to be a bit more civil, even if Pippin did know about the Cruciatus Curse.

Hermione wondered about that Cruciatus. Why would Pippin be anywhere near anywhere Tom might have used that on someone? Who had it been used on? When?

They found the book fairly quickly between them. It was old and maroon, looked like it was falling apart, and the antidote for the Dissolution Solution was near the back. Hermione sighed in relief when she saw the brewing time – three hours. She had been afraid it would be days, or worse, weeks. One never knew with antidotes; there wasn't any sort of specific trend.

Unfortunately, the whole castle knew about the Dissolution Solution – Catalina Lightfoot had come to Hermione's bed the first night after the potion, and had had a discussion with one of her friends about how she thought Hermione might have moved on. Hermione had had to put them straight, and as a result, it was now common knowledge that Araminta Meliflua had managed to turn Hermione Granger invisible and mute. Of course, Araminta's original plan had probably been to turn her invisible and mute and then lock her up in one of the dungeons, but that hadn't worked out so well.

Yet, Hermione was somehow deliriously happy. It oughtn't to have been a good trade-off – she'd lost her voice, lost her entire body, lost her best friends for the time being, and all she had left was Tom Riddle. And yet... yet it was satisfactory. Actually, it was more than satisfactory, Hermione mused. The way he kissed her – she swore she could eat and drink nothing and still survive as long as he was kissing her. In fact, she felt like this was almost unhealthy. The sudden desire to be with him for as long as was possible, every waking second – Hermione felt like if she wrote it down and came back to it later she would feel like she was being possessed by some love potion. Yet she was as lucid as she had ever been, as aware of his faults and as aware of their history, if not more so, as she had ever been.

"Maybe the antidote for the Silencer is in here as well," mumbled Riddle, flicking through the book. "As appealing as the idea of you not arguing with me may be -"

She elbowed him. He actually chuckled and fell silent.

He had become so accustomed to her. It was weirdly flattering, actually, that he had grown so comfortable. "Yes, that one's here, too," he said. "Shame."

He looked around. "And it's no use glaring at me, wherever you are," said Riddle, his smirk dark in the half-light. "I can't see you."

Hermione stopped scowling and let out a silent chortle. She lifted her wand. _How long does that one take?_

"A few hours, as well," he sighed. "You should be fine by dinner."

_And how are you feeling, back on your feet?_

He shrugged. "It is not in my character to feel weakness."

_You're feeling weak? That's bad._

"Did you hear a word I just said?"

_It is not in my character to actually listen to you._

"Be quiet."

_About that..._

He sighed. "Come on, let's just go and get these potions made."

The potions had some strange ingredients, but the preparation wasn't difficult, and Riddle looked as if he'd done it a million times as he brewed them.

_Must you make everything look so effortless?_ Hermione wrote.

He raised an eyebrow. "The instructions are right on the page; I don't see how it's possible to get them wrong."

Hermione had a soundless laugh at that one. That was how she had always felt, without fail, during Potions classes. In fact, she had always thought Potions was the easiest class, by far, but the hardest to study for, since there was the most to memorize. _You'd be surprised,_ she wrote. Surprised as she had always been when Ron or Harry somehow managed to stir something into a potion that wasn't even on the ingredients list...

He scooped up some of the first antidote in a small flask. "Done."

Hermione slowly placed the flask to her lips and swallowed the potion. It was warm, but as it pooled in her stomach, it felt like ice, and as the icy feeling melted, she felt something click in her throat, like it was unlocking. "Hello?" she said, her voice tired from disuse. "Oh, thank God, I was getting so tired of writing everything."

"And I was getting more than tired of having to attempt to read your handwriting," sighed Tom, raising an eyebrow in her general direction.

"Well, sorry; not all of us can be calligraphy artists," muttered Hermione. He looked faintly amused and turned back to the other potion, stirring it gently.

Fifteen minutes later, Hermione Granger was back, combing her hair out with a flick of her wand – "I didn't even know it could _get_ that messy..." – putting on her sweater the right way around – "Give me a break; when I picked things up they turned invisible..." – and finally being able to satisfy Riddle with her smile again.

"It feels as if it has been entirely too long," he said.

"It has. You know what I'm going to do?"

"No. I don't believe anybody ever knows what you're planning," sighed Riddle idly, Vanishing the remainder of the potions and stacking the cauldrons.

"I'm going to challenge Araminta at Dueling Club," decided Hermione firmly. "It's been a long time in the making."

Riddle shrugged, leaning against the table and surveying her with a satisfied eye. "You know, if I were you right now, I'd probably say something irrational about how you should _forgive_ her instead of challenging someone whom you know you could beat with one hand behind your back." He shrugged. "But I'm not you, so I'll just say that I fully approve, and that I hope you curse her so hard that she is completely unrecognizable."

He was right, Hermione thought with a sigh. The only reason Araminta had ever been able to do anything to Hermione was because she caught her by surprise. Araminta was a decent spellcaster, but nothing phenomenal; it would be very unfair to challenge her. "Well, Mr. Riddle, I do believe you've just convinced me to do the right thing." She gave him her best winning smile.

"Is that so terribly hard to believe?" he said.

"Uh, _yes_."

"I'd say I've been making some excellent choices in the last few days," Riddle said, a lazy smile making its way onto his mouth. He approached her.

Hermione looked up at him with familiar defiance. "Give me one example."

Riddle stopped hardly a foot from her, lifted a hand to her face, and leaned down slowly, never breaking eye contact.

Hermione shut her eyes as his lips met hers gently, that abrupt plummeting of her stomach never ceasing to amaze her with the sensations it created. As he pulled away, she tipped towards him slightly, leaning forward on the balls of her feet. "There's one," he said. "Let's go get dinner. I'm hungry."

Hermione smiled to herself and followed him out of the door to the Kitchens.

xXxXxXxXx

When she and Riddle walked into Dueling Club, there was a bit of a reaction, for several reasons, only three of which Hermione knew.

First of all, Hermione was visible again. Second of all, she walked in next to Tom Riddle. Third of all, Tom Riddle was making his first appearance at Dueling since the battle.

Fourth of all, two days ago, Miranda had completely forgotten to take a certain potion, and as a result, she had gone a bit strange in the head that afternoon, accidentally divulging to both Godric and Albus that she was puzzled that Hermione was invisible and silenced rather than still secretly healing Tom Riddle up in his bedroom.

Fifth of all, Jared Pippin had made the mistake of telling the loose-tongued Marque twins, in confidence, about Riddle casting the Cruciatus Curse on Mina, and they had told quite a few people, in confidence, who had each told several more... in confidence, of course.

As a result of these five circumstances, there was definitely quite a stir upon Hermione and Tom's arrival, not the least of which was Godric lifting his wand, making the doors to the Great Hall slam rather harder than usual with a veritably thunderous noise.

Then Godric was on the Dueling dais, and he was pointing at Hermione, his eyes narrowed quite disturbingly, and he was saying, "Hermione."

Hermione pointed at herself questioningly, alarmed by all the murmuring and rustling around her. It wasn't unheard of for people of different houses to walk into Dueling Club together, and that shouldn't have been any sort of decent reason for Godric to challenge her to a duel. "But why—" Riddle stepped forward to cut in, but Hermione's arm shot out. "You are _recovering,_" she hissed.

So she made her way to the front of the crowd, looking around a bit anxiously. Why was everyone there sending awful glances at Tom? Why were some of them even giving her uneasy looks?

She climbed up on the dais, drawing her wand hesitantly. "Godric, why -"

"Don't you say a word to me," he growled, and Hermione was completely struck by the venom in his green eyes. "Not when you're with _him_, after what he's _done._"

"What are you – _Protego!_" Hermione yelled in alarm, and Godric's Stunner bounced off her shield harmlessly. It was very out of character for Godric to attack without an opponent being ready – or, really, even to attack first. He enjoyed taking the second move, so why was he attacking her, and why was he looking like Hermione had stabbed him in the back? What did he mean, what Tom had _done_?

Hermione waited for him to attack again, and he did not disappoint. A cloud of gray gas crept up towards her, and Hermione whipped her wand to the side. A bolt of electricity shot into the gas, dispersing it, and Godric's next attack, a huge roll of dark blue energy, barreled across the stone, leaving it cracked and damaged. Hermione sliced her wand downwards, gritting her teeth as a green jet of light from her wand crashed into the blue roll, exploding violently. Godric was going no-holds-barred.

She conjured a small flock of golden birds and sent them to peck at Godric's face with _Oppugno_ – a recycled attack from back at Hogwarts, but no one here would know that – and defended as a nasty red stream of light sliced the air in front of her.

_Depulso!_ A fairly standard hex, but she didn't really want to hurt Godric – she just wanted him not to hurt her, and what with the curses and things he was throwing at her, she was marveling at her own ability to duel at all. Her shielding knowledge was being pushed to the limit – from a shield of solid rock, yanked up from the dais beneath her, to a globe of purple energy that only barely managed to absorb a vicious swirl of bright yellow.

He whipped his wand downwards and up again, and a figure swelled out of the stone, a huge stone knight with a sharp sword. Hermione's eyes widened in alarm as it charged at her, and she attempted to blast it, but its stone shield deflected the jinx. So she lifted her wand, cast _Vivifica_ at the stone beneath the knight, and it turned into an eddy of stone quicksand. As the knight sank into the ground, unsuccessfully attempting to get free, Hermione dove to the side to avoid a viciously speeding conjured hawk. She flicked her wand at it, and it transformed into a spoon – _why did I choose a spoon? – _and clattered to the ground. The tip of the stone knight's helm disappeared into the rock, and Hermione flicked her wand, extending the quicksand effect over to Godric's end of the dais. He jumped up, waved his wand, and suddenly he was standing on a thin, floating blue sheet, looking down at her coldly.

He lifted his wand, and then he started firing spells so quickly that Hermione marveled at his ability to think the words at that pace. She whipped her wand – _Penumbrum!_ – to create a speck of light, which appeared halfway between her and Godric, spreading out a globe of translucent grayness, absorbing every spell he cast and spitting it out elsewhere. He glared at the globe, then jabbed his wand at it, and with a shrieking noise it swelled into what looked like a huge black disk. He jerked his wand, and Hermione felt herself flying towards the disk, like it was a giant magnet just for her. She flourished her wand frantically, conjuring chains that were connected to the ground, winding them around her wrists, but the pull of the magnet thing was so strong that they were torn from the dais.

Hermione smacked into the disk with a yelp of pain. Her wand was still clenched firmly in her hand, and Hermione thought sarcastically, _Finite Incantatem_, and flicked her wand without enthusiasm, assuming the duel was over.

She was caught by surprise. The black disk vanished, and she fell several feet to the dais, looking up at Godric, who was still on his blue screen. He Vanished it and drifted down slowly – _how did he do that? – _and then he shot a spell at her, a red spell she didn't recognize. She raised a thick grey shield, but the red light smashed through it and hit her in the shoulder, spinning her wildly onto the ground. She lay there, wondering what the spell had done, but she realized that there was blood pouring from her face. A Nosebleed jinx? That shouldn't have been able to get through her shield – but Hermione put her hand up to her face. Her nose was dry. The blood was streaming from her _eyes._

That didn't seem like regular magic. That seemed almost Dark – but Godric wouldn't use Dark magic, surely... and not on her, not at Dueling Club, for Merlin's sake – but she got to her feet, wondering which spell could counteract it, redness bubbling at the lower half of her vision.

Hermione blinked, and the blood burned at her eyes thickly. She winced. _Tergeo!_

The blood vanished, but new streams started to run over, and Godric had started a new onslaught. Hermione frantically raised another shield, a jellylike white bubble several inches thick, and tried a few basic healing spells. The last one worked, and the blood stopped flowing, but it left Hermione a bit lightheaded, and then she looked around and realized that something was creeping around the outside of her bubble, like veins, webbing around her protection. She flicked her wand, reinforcing the bubble, and it glowed whiter and whiter until – Hermione gritted her teeth and clapped her hands over her ears – there was a massive _bang_ and the veins flew outwards in every direction.

The next curse was a cutter, and it sliced through the shield like a knife through butter. Hermione caught the curse mid-slice and slung it back at Godric, changing it into a tying jinx. His arm moved outwards like he were ripping something from his chest, and a blue stream of fire erupted from his wandtip. Hermione assumed it was bluebell flame, and started to prepare accordingly, but as it was ten feet from her, it abruptly stopped, dropped onto the stone dais, and then streamed upwards steadily, twenty feet high. There was a silhouette behind it. And out of the wall of flame walked Lord Voldemort.

There were terrified screams from the crowd. But why would they be afraid of someone they didn't know?

"Bow to me, Mudblood," said Voldemort's voice, icy, terrifying, in utter control.

Hermione stared at him, not comprehending, not understanding. She cast a glance back at Tom, who was standing, frozen, in the audience. "Look at me," hissed Voldemort, and he raised his wand. "Bow. Or would you rather I cast our favorite little curse?"

"_No,_" sobbed Hermione, her heart thudding faster than it had in so long, fear burning like bleach through every part of her. "No, not that – I swear I'll -" And she toppled to her knees, trembling fiercely. "No..."

She looked up, and through the blur of her tears, she saw Voldemort crouching down next to her. He moved his pale white face until it was next to her ear. "They're all dead," he whispered.

Hermione screamed and pitched forward, curling up into a ball. "No," she panted, gasping, sobbing. But when she looked up again, he was gone. The flames were gone. Godric was standing several feet from her. He jerked his wand. Hers flew from her grip.

"You can leave," Godric said coldly. "Now."

Hermione placed a hand to her face, attempting to hide her tears from the people she realized were watching, her eyes frantically attempting to find a face that didn't look utterly horrified or enraged – and there was Tom, in the back of the crowd, his eyes wide in shock.

She stumbled from the dais. Godric threw her wand to the ground with a clatter, and she snatched it up and forced blindly through the crowd, her fingers spread wide in a desperate try to conceal her face from all the stares, all those preying stares.

Then there was a strong hand on her back. The doors flew open with a _bang_. Tom steered her from the Great Hall, her face still buried in her hands. She still shook in terror, in disbelief.

Then they were outside, in the cold air, just beyond the great doors to the Entrance Hall, and Tom turned and faced her. "Look at me," he ordered, cold bite in his voice, but that was just the wrong voice to use just then, for it sounded exactly like _him_.

Hermione let out a small scream, turned, attempted to stumble back into Hogwarts, but then his hand was on her forearm, and he spun her around to look at him, grabbing her other arm, his eyes desperate. "Hermione," he said softly. There – that was it. That was the voice she needed. That was Tom, not He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named—

Hermione drew in a shuddering breath. His dark stare held her crazed gaze with strength. "Hermione," he repeated.

She took two exhausted steps forward and pressed her face to his chest, tears spilling over once again. His arms hesitantly wound around her, and his chin rested on top of her head. The embrace tightened, and Hermione reached around his back and hugged herself close to him, willing all the breath to get crushed from her body, her worthless body, the body that should have been attempting to get back to earth with every drop of merit it had, but the body that so selfishly was there, with Tom, without honor, without apology.

"In the fire... I saw him," she said.

"Who?" his low voice murmured above her.

"You," she said, and he took a shocked step back, breaking his hold. But she was done running. She stood and faced him. "Voldemort."

He sucked in a breath. "You – you did?" he murmured.

"So you saw something different?" Hermione whispered. "It was – it wasn't really him..."

"No, of course it wasn't him," said Tom. "You're safe."

She let out a deep breath and looked up at the stone overhang. "I'm safe," she murmured. Safe, exactly like she shouldn't have been... _coward, coward, coward..._ and the warm touch of his pale hand on her face soothed her, calmed her. A quiet kiss, a kiss of soft consolation, and he drew back.

"What did Godric mean, what you've done?" she asked him softly. "He said... what _he's_ done; he meaning you."

Riddle realized that Hermione had never found out about him cursing Mina, and he closed his eyes in disbelief. Of course the Gryffindor boy would react in such a manner to Hermione's being discovered with Riddle, being discovered healing Riddle – it wasn't because of his being a Slytherin, it was because of what he'd done to the boy's girlfriend, and then she'd moved on...

"It was the day after I tricked you," he said quietly. Hermione looked up at him in confusion. "I was angry. I was so angry, irrationally, at your friends, because they had you, and I did not." He took a deep breath. How could he put this? "They were walking upstairs. It was quite near the Infirmary, I think."

Hermione's face drew in shock. "That's how the Healers knew," she whispered. Pippin and Mungo had said... "Who was it? _Who did you curse?_"

"The Mina girl," Riddle said, his expression torn. "Hermione, I – I wasn't in my right mind; I didn't -"

Hermione shushed him. She swallowed. Her mind was racing. She felt as if she should be viciously, destructively angry at him, but she wasn't. Everything was just falling into place. Godric and Mina had avoided her because they'd thought she was the reason Riddle had cursed Mina. She wasn't the reason. It had never been her. That was when Mungo and Jared had seen Riddle use the curse, which she had never really wondered about, but of course it would seem completely and utterly unprovoked, no context at all... and Mina had seemed fine that next day, had seemed like nothing had happened. Why had they kept that from her? Why?

Merlin. Hermione couldn't believe she remembered it.

The night of the love potion. A flash of black, instantaneous, making her gaze stray for a single second from Riddle after he had kissed her... a flash of black _robe_, she realized. Not a trick of the light. A person vanishing up the stairs. It didn't matter who it had been; news of Riddle kissing her had gotten around to Mina and Godric, and they had thought she was involved with him, so they hadn't told her about the Cruciatus, because of course they would have thought she wouldn't want to know, because she never seemed to take their advice about him for reasons they could never understand...

Hermione realized she was just staring at him. "I'm not angry. God knows I haven't the energy to be angry about the past."

He blinked, and understanding showed in his dark eyes. "That's good."

His arms were around her again, and she relaxed in his strong embrace, letting her heart flare out in anger all it wished, letting her soul cry out for redemption all it wished, because right then all she had was him, and right then, however strangely, that seemed to be enough.


	22. Chapter 22

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** Eternal love seeps from my pores into your hands. That sounds creepy. Moving on!**

* * *

When Hermione walked into the Gryffindor common room, there was a bit of an ominous hush, and then people started uneasily talking again. Not to her, though. No one even said hello. She sat by Miranda, who was looking a bit lonely in a red armchair. Miranda frowned and did not greet her.

"Miranda?" said Hermione tentatively, and when the other girl looked over, Hermione was unsettled to see some rarely-surfaced anger in her friend's face. "What _is_ it? Why is everyone giving me these weird _looks_?"

Miranda sighed and rolled her eyes. "What you're doing, you know – it's a complete insult to Mina's memory," she said.

"What I'm _doing_?" Hermione said. "What, happening to have _feelings_ for someone?"

"Well, if that someone cast an Unforgivable Curse on her, then yes," replied Miranda stiffly. "I would usually apologize, because I let slip to Godric and Albus that you were healing Riddle, but honestly, I can't bring myself to apologize right now. Mina was right – you don't make any sense at all."

Hermione swallowed the angry words that were threatening to surface. She hadn't known that Tom had cursed Mina, after all. But... but Miranda had just _told_ them? "Why did you say anything?"

"I forgot to take my Rejuvenation Boost, and I went a bit funny in the head, but that's neither here nor there. I'm glad I told them; I don't intend to participate in the secret life of Hermione Granger anymore, not with all this Dark magic and lack of respect for a girl I personally miss very much."

So saying, Miranda sank down in her chair and lifted her book to her face, shutting Hermione out. Hermione's feeble attempts to re-instigate conversation went relatively unnoticed.

So everything was out in the open now. Everyone in Gryffindor knew that Riddle had cursed Mina, although no one seemed to know that Hermione hadn't known that until _after_ everyone else. Everyone in Gryffindor knew that she and Riddle were together. And, apparently, to everyone in Gryffindor, that was a crime punishable by death.

This was so _stupid_! Hermione wondered how long it would take for them all to cool off.

Hermione walked up to the dormitory. It was cold up there; someone had left open a window. Empty, too, and Hermione suddenly felt like this was exactly where she shouldn't be. The room where she and Mina had stayed up late talking. The room where she'd gotten ready alone for the Christmas Dance. The room that wasn't the same as it had been back on Earth, and did not hold the same comforting connotations, no matter how much she might like to convince herself as such.

She looked out the window. There was someone sitting by the lake, in the snow, a small dark figure alone in a sea of white. Hermione was intensely reminded of herself – a single besmirched figure in a sea of self-righteous dislike.

She needed to get out.

She took out her wand. _Accio Nimbus!_ She didn't feel like going back down those steps, back through that common room. Hermione was infuriated by the whole situation – what did her personal life have to do with any of those people who were giving her judging looks? It was her business. And as far as Hermione could see, she wasn't betraying Mina's memory by having feelings for Tom Riddle. He had happened to have a fit of maladjusted rage, which was entirely anticipated for the Dark Lord, and one single Cruciatus was actually sort of reasonable, by his standards. And then he had spiraled into self-pity, and Mina and Godric had moved on with their lives, put it in the past... so why did it matter so much?

She held out her hand, mourning the loss of logical thought, as the Nimbus 2001 approached the window. The Cruciatus Curse was not okay. It was not all right, and Hermione knew it – but she couldn't bring herself to be angry at the single person who was not angry with her. She slowly got onto the broom, her grip trembling a bit as she looked down a couple hundred feet to the ground. But the broom held her steadily, and she leaned down a bit on the handle, moving away from the bedroom window.

Hermione was still hurting from Godric's duel. The sudden viciousness of the relaxed, friendly boy was unsettling at the least and verging on disturbing at the most. Hermione didn't even know what spell that last one might have been – a temporary Boggart spell? She'd never even heard of something like that – and it was the worst possible spell he could have cast. She'd humiliated herself in front of the entire castle because of that vision of Voldemort, but so help her, the sight of him standing there in the flesh had been entirely too much to handle.

The freezing night air whipped Hermione's hair into a frenzy. She looked down at that figure by the lake and navigated into a shallow dive, landing quietly a few feet from him.

"Couldn't sleep?" she asked quietly. "I know I couldn't."

Tom turned his face towards her. He looked striking in the glimmering moonlight. "Just thinking," he said softly. "Would you like to sit down?"

Hermione crunched up to him through the snow and sat down by his side. "Knut for your thoughts?"

Riddle closed his eyes. "I'm having difficulty with the concept of death. It's not pleasant for me to have to admit fear, but I -"

He broke off, not seeming to be able to finish the sentence. "You're scared," Hermione said. He made no move to acknowledge it, but he didn't deny it, either.

"It doesn't seem fair," he said quietly. "All I used to have was the prayer that I might be enjoying a deathless existence on Earth, but I can't enjoy the fact that I've ruined so many lives and killed so many people. In fact, I can't even enjoy the knowledge of my personal benefit, and even disregarding that benefit is strange, for me." He paused and scratched at his jaw absentmindedly, eyes fixed on the snow. "Ever since I first arrived at Hogwarts, it's been me. Everything has been me. And no one else seemed to mind it being all about me. I never got the chance to be treated as an equal, because I was always better than that." He sighed. "I was never treated as a person with faults, because no one ever knew them until it was too late for them, and I didn't grieve over the loss of the opportunity to be treated _normally_. But now – now I'm – I'm sitting here, and I'm wondering where exactly things turned from... from perhaps simple vanity into idiocy. Into cruelty without a visible _point_! I mean, Hermione -"

He turned to face her, a lost expression on his face. "I'm renowned as the most _evil_ person ever alive. I'm hated. I'm _reviled._ And there's nothing I can do about it, of course, but it's unsettling. What happened to my intelligence? When did I start just mindlessly shoving people around without even a thought to coercion? Even back when I was just a Hogwarts student, I was an expert at non-violent manipulation. It's an art. You know, something to be appreciated, learned, refined – and I'm just wondering when I dropped that tack altogether and started killing people left and right."

There was a long pause. Riddle sighed and closed his eyes again. "But there aren't any second chances. Those people I killed are dead forever. Forever. And soon I will be too, if there's only one horcrux left – dead."

The word was hollow and ringing. Hermione swallowed. She hadn't realized all that he was feeling.

"You didn't do any of that," she said quietly.

"What?"

"Tom Riddle," Hermione said, "did you murder Lily and James Potter?"

His dark eyes opened, reflections of the moon glazing them with forgotten light. "Yes," he murmured.

"No, you didn't," replied Hermione. "You hadn't done any of that when you arrived here. You hadn't ordered Albus Dumbledore killed. You hadn't killed –" She broke off, suddenly remembering that he didn't know he'd killed her – but as she said the words, she realized that they were true. This boy, Tom Riddle, hadn't _done_ anything to her. He hadn't done many of his most evil actions yet. In fact, he had done them so little that Hermione had had to show him _memories_ of his future counterpart for him even to know about them. This Tom Riddle and the future Lord Voldemort? Those two people were not quite the same. Just as the Dumbledore on earth and the Dumbledore here were not the same.

"But I've done terrible things," he said. "That's not exactly refutable."

"I know, but you haven't done every terrible thing you've started to blame yourself for. You, yourself – you don't owe me a thing. You don't owe Lily and James Potter a thing. You don't owe Sirius Black anything. You don't owe Albus Dumbledore anything."

The words actually hurt coming out of her throat, because they were so against everything she had maintained so staunchly. A part of her screamed that she was lying, that she shouldn't have been saying the words – but it just wasn't right for him to blame himself for things he'd never done. That burden was massive, and the last thing someone just starting to discover humanity needed was guilt. Though he probably wasn't admitting to himself it was guilt; he would probably want to think he couldn't feel something like that. Life would have been so much easier without _guilt_.

As she thought the word, a crippling stream of it fought its way through her mind, and she gritted her teeth and shoved it back. Guilt was just a euphemism for an unsaid apology, an apology she was too far gone to make.

He looked unsure about her words. Hesitantly, Hermione reached up and placed a hand on his shoulder, applying gentle pressure, turning him to face her. "Tom, you're in a difficult situation right now."

He let out a breath, which hovered white in the black air. "I know that."

"You can't blame yourself for what you haven't done," she said quietly, "but the only way your soul will ever heal is if you feel remorse. Remorse for what you have done. Remorse for people that you _have_ hurt."

Tom's eyes were inscrutable, but Hermione could tell that he was thinking he could never be apologetic about what he'd done to his father, his grandparents. "I'm not sorry," he murmured. "I will never be sorry for – for that."

Hermione wondered if he knew that she knew exactly what he was talking about. "Maybe you'll surprise yourself. You've surprised me."

A bit of warmth made its way back into his features. His eyes seemed to smile at her as he said, "You're easily surprised."

He leaned forward and kissed her, and every thought streamed away from her mind in hopeless verification of his words. She tipped over backwards with the pressure of his kiss, and he followed her, one gentle hand on the back of her neck as her hair splayed itself out in the packed snow. Coldness flooded into her as she lay flat on her back, looking up at him. He knelt over her, a single snowflake clinging bizarrely to his eyelashes, his straight, serious eyebrows frowned a little in a pained expression of unfamiliar tenderness.

Then he was kissing her again, harder than before, with a sort of hunger behind it, and Hermione felt a greedy want rising in her stomach with a twinge in her chest to accompany it. She reached up her hands, laced them around his neck, and pulled him in, deepening the kiss until she could taste him, breathing in shockingly cold air through her nose which was tinted with the smell of him. His hands rested chastely on her waist. Though her clothes were soaking through with snow, Hermione was perfectly warmed by that fire lighting its way down to her fingertips, a crash of percussive desire thrumming its way out of her heart.

He pulled away, and she sat up, her cheeks pink with cold, her eyes bright. His chest rose and fell lightly, his black sweater soft under her hands, and his lips parted slightly, a small crease between his eyebrows. "Are you cold?" he murmured, and reached out a possessive hand to move her hair back into place.

"A little."

He stood, and then offered her a hand. Taking it, Hermione flicked her wand, sending the Nimbus back to the general area of the Quidditch pitch. They walked back to the castle, stopping every so often to warm themselves with a kiss, and Hermione mourned the loss of Miranda, of Godric. But her jealous heart secretly rejoiced in the arm around her, rejoiced in the touch of his fingertips, and rejoiced every time he managed to make her marvel at his talent for making her forget absolutely everything but him.

It was very late. The hallways were empty, and the pair ambled slowly up to the Head Boy and Head Girl quarters, talking in low voices.

Riddle felt odd about this entire situation. Kissing her felt entirely right, like he was supposed to be doing it, like he was never supposed to pull away. He hadn't even known that could be a feeling that was associated with physical contact. He had only ever used physical things for temporary satisfaction in the past, of course – but whenever he pulled back from Hermione and saw her flushed from kissing him, saw her familiar features lit up with that small smile, he felt satisfaction that was far more than temporary.

Kissing her was like quenching a great thirst, and that thirst seemed to build up every second he was not kissing her, every second he didn't have his arm around her shoulders, every second he was away from her. It was exactly like an addiction. It felt like... it felt like power, felt like when he was casting a particularly difficult piece of magic and reveling in the raw potency of it, felt like the ability to do absolutely everything. And it was incited by this one person, by the hard-won affections of Hermione Granger. It was like conquering the strongest empire in the world. It was like leveling the greatest mountain, like stilling the roughest sea.

Part of him was almost glad that everyone in Gryffindor house was being such a damned idiot about the situation, because it meant she had few other options than him. Of course, Riddle assumed that she would be spending her time with him even if she did have other options, because to think otherwise would just be insulting. Hadn't she always been fascinated by him, anyway? Hadn't she, likely against her better judgment, always come trailing back to him? Surely her attentions weren't something he needed to worry about.

But there was a completely senseless, jealous part of him that felt like every second she was not by his side, she was somewhere she didn't need to be. Riddle attempted to suppress this part of himself, because if she knew about it, she'd probably get unnecessarily affronted and tell him that she could make her own choices in life... but he really didn't like the idea of her having friends if that meant that he saw any less of her than he was seeing now. Especially if said friends were male.

"Why did you leave your dormitory?" he asked.

"I thought it might have been you by the lake," she answered. "Ernest Hemingway."

The door clicked, and Riddle pushed it open. "Any other reason?"

"Well, if you absolutely must know, I felt uncomfortable surrounded by a bunch of Gryffindors who hate me for something that's none of their business."

"Oh." Riddle tapped the knob on his door, and they walked in. The fire was burning low in the hearth, but Hermione flicked her wand and a dry log slid its way onto the grate, picking up the flame quickly. The windows were shut, and reflections of the fire flickered in them gently. There was an intensely calm atmosphere to the neat room.

Hermione threw herself onto the sofa with a tired groan. "I can't believe Miranda," she sighed. "I always thought Miranda would – well, that she wouldn't let things that don't matter get in the way of our friendship."

Riddle leaned over the back of the sofa, surveying her with a smirk. "So I'm a 'thing that doesn't matter'?" he asked coolly, enjoying watching her fumble for a quick defense.

"That's – that's not what I meant, and you know it," she huffed. "It's just that I thought she held more stock in me than letting a boy define who I am. I thought everyone held enough stock in me to know that I'm not defined by a boy, actually."

As Hermione sat up, observing the fire calmly, Riddle came around the front of the sofa and sat next to her. "I wouldn't mind defining you," he murmured, placing an arm around her waist territorially.

"Well, I would mind that immensely," said Hermione. Riddle was not pleased by that sentence. She continued, "I mean, what would you think if everyone in Slytherin just knew you as 'that boy who's with Hermione Granger'?"

Well, that was a reasonable way to put it, Riddle supposed with a bit of a sigh. Hermione carefully put her head on his shoulder, and Riddle felt the sudden urge to kiss the top of her head, but he restrained it.

On second thoughts, he did it anyway. After all, she was his now. She had made it perfectly clear when she had kissed him back for the first time, down in the potions classroom. Physical contact was allowed. Encouraged, probably, given her usual reactions. Riddle allowed a lazy smirk to come over him, and he slouched down on the sofa, sighing contentedly.

"That might irk me," he answered slowly. "So you think I'm 'with' you, then?"

"Well, what's _that _supposed to mean?" Hermione laughed, but she sounded a bit uneasy.

Riddle shrugged, and she took her head off his shoulder and looked at his dark profile. "I was just wondering if you really think we're... you know, _together_," said Riddle, and yawned, as if it were the least important question in the world.

He could see her looking a bit mortified out of the corner of his eye, and he restrained a smirk. "I... I mean... you don't?" she said in a small voice.

Riddle turned and looked at her, an amused smile on his lips. "Did I say that?" He really shouldn't even have fallen bait to this topic of conversation, but messing with Hermione Granger was one of the more appreciable pursuits of life, and he wanted to see exactly how much she cared.

A thundercloud seemed to descend over her head. The scowl on her face was utterly comical. "You... are so... infuriating!" she seethed.

"One of the finer aspects of my personality," mused Riddle, and for a second she actually looked like she might hit him.

"I can't deal with your mind games right now." Hermione leaned away from him, slumping onto the arm of the sofa.

He reached over a hand, but she waved it away dejectedly, a moping look of self-pity on her face. Riddle sighed. Waving him away? That would not do. Not at all. "Don't be like that, Hermione," he said, using his best innocent-orphan voice. "You're just so entertaining when your feelings make themselves apparent."

She let out a 'hmph' and didn't look away from the fire.

"Come on," said Riddle, and his tone darkened, a smile entering it. "I can think of far better things you could be doing right now than wallowing."

"Oh really," she mumbled halfheartedly. "Let's hear them, then."

He let his hand trail over to her thigh. "I was thinking more of a demonstration, actually," he murmured, and Hermione looked over at him, a blush darkening her cheeks. There was a long pause, and then,

"Nah," she said disinterestedly, and the blush faded away.

Riddle was horrified by this reaction. What in hell's name? That was not a logical proceeding statement. How could she actually be refusing his advances?  
"Well, whyever not?" He moved over on the sofa until his presence was impossible to ignore.

"Just... no." She turned back to him, her bottom lip pouting out a bit. "I just don't feel like it, Tom."

"Why must you be so exasperating?" His face threatened signs of frustration. What was she playing at?

She shrugged and looked at the fire. "I don't know," she sighed. "I guess I just like it when your feelings make themselves apparent." And then Hermione turned back to him, and Merlin, there was a smirk the size of Great Britain on her face, and Riddle grabbed her shoulders and kissed her fiercely, feeling her fight a grin beneath him. Her arms wound around his back, pulling him tight, pulling him close.

He stopped kissing her for a second, brushed her hair back from her face, and murmured in her ear, "I think you very well may be the evil one here."

She whispered, "You'll need quite a bit of work before that happens," and tilted her head back slightly. Riddle's mouth breathed hotly down her neck, until his lips finally pressed warm onto her collarbone. One of her hands wound itself into his hair, pressing him down rather harder than was necessary. He moved his own hands to her hips, lifting her shirt slightly, his thumbs grazing over the smooth skin of her waist.

Hermione tugged at the bottom of his black sweater, lifting it up until he was forced to move back and let her bring it over his head. "Did I ask you to undress me?" he asked.

"Did you tell me not to?" she replied, and threw the sweater carelessly to the rug. She stood up, and Riddle followed, his fingers casually unbuttoning his shirt. Once it hung open loosely, Hermione put her hands on his shoulders a little shyly and removed the shirt from his body. He reached out a hand and unzipped her green jacket, his eyes never leaving hers. "I must say," she said quietly, "I'm glad I fixed your chest."

Riddle slid her jacket off and tossed it onto the couch. "Agreed. Logistically, this would be quite difficult if I were immobile." So saying, he picked her up. She drew in a sharp breath, and he carried her over to his bed, laying her down carefully. He reveled in the sight of her lying on his sheets, expectant, leaving the proverbial ball completely in his court.

He laid himself on the bed next to her. "Well," he sighed, "good night, since you're so... _tired_." He turned over and laid his head on a pillow. Mentally, he counted to three, and then there was a hand on his bare shoulder, a hand that flipped him over.

"Don't even try that," Hermione said fiercely. "And I swear on Merlin's beard that if you say it's 'just fun to make me mad', or anything to that effect, I will go over there and get my wand and you will become a permanent fixture in the Infirmary décor."

He sat up on one arm. "Don't worry," he murmured, and there was a searing burn in his voice that made Hermione's mouth dry up involuntarily. "For what I was planning, I wouldn't need to say much of anything at all." His smirk was so wide that he flashed his perfect teeth at her, even as her face turned as red as he had ever seen it. He leaned over and kissed her, and as her hands slid their way down his bare chest, he let out an animal noise. Wrapping his arms around her back, he pulled her flush to him until he could feel every curve of her small body against him, and then, and _then_, Tom Riddle was satisfied.

xXxXxXxXxXx

"What do you mean, it's not Venomous Tentacula?" Hermione seethed.

"Password's changed, darling," the Fat Lady sniffed. "I suppose you shouldn't have stayed out all night, then. Where were you?"

"That is none of your business!" snapped Hermione. The last thing she needed was the damn portraits talking about her. Why had it changed tonight, of all nights, the night she'd decided to stay overnight in the Head Girl room? No one would let her in, that was for sure. Damn, damn, damn!

She stormed down to the Great Hall in a formidable grump, but as she walked in, she was met with another dilemma. Every single person at the Gryffindor table was looking at her like she was the devil incarnate.

Hermione tentatively started to walk towards the end, where no one was sitting, or, specifically, where no one was sitting who was glaring, but something caught her eye. She glanced over to the Slytherin table. Abraxas Malfoy waved her over.

With a feeling that was dangerously close to relief, Hermione made her way over to the Slytherin table. "What is it?" she asked Abraxas. He indicated the seat next to him, and Hermione took it. She repeated, "What is it?"

He shrugged. "I just thought you might like somewhere to sit where no one's looking like they might kill you."

Hermione felt something lurch inside her. Was she really just sitting at the Slytherin table for breakfast, a single person with red-lined robes amid a sea of green?

Well, if that was where the people who considered her a friend were sitting, then she supposed she ought to feel satisfied. Hermione half-shrugged to herself and pulled a plate towards her. Well, fine. _If you're going to look at me like that, Godric…_

"So, where's Tom?" she asked. He was noticeably absent, although Revelend was to her right and Herpo was across from her.

Abraxas shrugged. "We usually don't question him. Although, seeing as Araminta's missing as well, I'd hazard a guess that he may be under severe harassment."

Hermione's throat seized up. What would Araminta do when she walked in to see Hermione sitting casually across from Araminta's usual spot? She cast a glance over at the door and finished a roll hurriedly. "I forgot Araminta existed," she muttered uneasily. "Maybe I should just -"

But then Araminta flounced through the door, walked over to the Slytherin table, and sat down directly across from Hermione. She said, "Abraxas, I was wondering where the Quidditch team was going to meet after bre-" and then she looked up from her plate, her eyes fell on Hermione, and her jaw just sort of hung open. "I... What are you...?"

Hermione shrugged. "Sorry, Araminta, I know it's not a pleasure to _see_ me, but I'm just relaxing and enjoying breakfast, so I daresay it doesn't merit abuse."

Araminta looked down at her plate with narrowed eyes, as if it had committed a great offense against her. Then she said, "That was very interesting at Dueling Club yesterday, Granger."

Unease spread through Hermione. She didn't feel comfortable talking about the duel, about what had caused the duel, or, if it was Araminta, the time following the duel. "Yes," Hermione agreed. "I daresay it was." Of course, Araminta wouldn't know that it was Voldemort who had appeared in the blue flame – she had seen her own worst fear, not Hermione's.

"What did you do, set fire to Gryffindor's bed?" asked Araminta. They were the first words Hermione had ever heard from the girl that didn't have a distinctly nasty tone of voice. That, of course, didn't mean Hermione was comfortable with them.

"No," sighed Hermione. "Godric took personal offense at something I think it's very unreasonable for him to take offense at."

Araminta raised her thin eyebrows and pulled the bread towards her. "Oh, well, Gryffindor idiocy is always good for a bit of entertainment."

Hermione felt a weird urge to laugh. Even Abraxas was a bit surprised that Araminta wasn't going utterly berserk at Hermione's presence. "To answer your unfinished question, Araminta," Abraxas said jovially, "Quidditch is meeting down the hall on the left to talk over a bit of defense." Araminta's sudden appearance was a bit of an inconvenience, though, because Abraxas had intended to speak with Hermione about something that had been niggling at him quite frequently: Why was she still hanging around with Riddle?

Riddle had told them before he'd gotten cursed that he had what he needed, that he knew what he needed to know, that he had gleaned the necessary information from his target. He had looked so awful as he'd told them, completely untogether, his hair rumpled and his clothes out of order. But these days, he was perfectly composed again, polite and distant in public, dangerous in private, or as far as Abraxas had seen. Abraxas had marveled at Hermione's drive to heal Riddle, after he'd gotten hurt, but though he'd marveled, he had also been deeply disturbed.

How had Riddle gotten that information and left Hermione still wanting to heal him? There had been that weird look in her eyes at the dance, like she was exhausted. She'd said she hadn't talked to him in a week – that had to have been when he'd gotten what he wanted. But when Abraxas had walked in on her healing him... the pair had been talking almost as if they were... well, as if they were friends. In fact, whenever Abraxas had been inside the room, Hermione and Riddle had seemed to be getting along wonderfully.

So Abraxas had just assumed that it was because Riddle was unable to do terrible things to people from his bed, and he'd figured that once the boy was back to his usual self, surely Hermione would stay away out of self-preservation. After all, hadn't he probably done something terrible to her to get what he wanted? What was it that Hermione had known that had sent Riddle spiraling down into disrepair? There were so many questions in Abraxas' brain about the entire situation that he didn't even know where to start.

And now. _Now_ Riddle was awake. And she seemed to be _closer_ to him. And Riddle! Riddle had spoken with Abraxas about _helping_ Hermione get back to her non-invisible state. Tom Riddle had surely never helped anyone in his life besides himself – and the fact that he was doing it in the first place was a sure indicator that there was something else he needed from the girl. But he'd told his followers he _had_ all he needed. What was he _doing_?

Speak of the devil – up he walked, looking casual, looking perfect, and he sat down in his usual spot, not seeming to have noticed all the stares and whispers that were directed at him. Abraxas almost couldn't believe he'd been so sloppy as to cast _Crucio_ on that Mina girl in the open hallway, where Jared had been able to see him. That was very out of character for Riddle.

When Riddle looked up and saw Hermione, he froze. "Well, hello, there," he said, raising one eyebrow. "Someone's a little out of place today."

"I figured I'd evade the stares," Hermione told him.

"It doesn't seem to be helping," muttered Revelend. Hermione glanced over her shoulder at the Gryffindor table – he was right. Her sitting with the Slytherins just seemed to be agitating the situation, although it appeared that Tom was getting just as many looks as she was, if not more. The difference was that he didn't seem to care at all.

"Well, it's better than being in close proximity to them, in any case," she sighed. Revelend nodded in agreement.

Hermione's eyes met Tom's, and she quickly looked away. If the Slytherins didn't know about them just yet, Hermione would prefer that it stayed that way, especially since Araminta was not taking the opportunity to hex her, and that was nice in itself.

But when Hermione looked up again, Araminta's hands were clutching onto Riddle's arm.

And he was doing nothing.

_He is doing nothing._

Hermione stared blatantly, but Araminta didn't seem to notice. Hermione felt her ears reddening in anger, felt rage start to simmer in her stomach – and she couldn't think herself out of it. Every logical thought told her that of course Riddle wouldn't shrug Araminta off. After all, he had his oh-so-important _image_ to maintain, and Slytherin house apparently hadn't caught wind of him and Hermione being together, so why would he do anything to remedy that?

After all, she was of inferior birth.

Hermione's teeth clenched involuntarily and she stared murderously at the stack of toast in front of her.

Meanwhile, Abraxas was observing with great interest. Hermione was suddenly fuming. In fact, he didn't think he'd seen her this angry except for once, and that was after Araminta had caught them with his shirt off. Why did she suddenly look like she was about to stab the life from that stack of toast?

Abraxas looked at her eyes. She looked like she was attempting very hard not to look at something – and then her gaze strayed for a heartbeat.

Abraxas glanced across the table. He saw nothing unusual – Araminta was leeching onto Riddle like he was some sort of arm accessory, and Riddle was looking politely disinterested. What was so enraging about that? Abraxas' grey eyes slowly glanced back to Hermione.

Something seemed to slide into place as he examined her expression. It was the expression of the angry, but it was that of the _irrationally_ angry. It was the expression of the _jealous._

No, no, no, no, no. Hermione couldn't have _romantic feelings_ for Riddle. That was incredibly dangerous. She was going to get herself hurt, because God knew Riddle couldn't even feel simple friendship, let alone romance, let alone _love_. And Abraxas wouldn't let Hermione turn into another Araminta, like some sort of brainless succubus whose only purpose was to live on what Riddle said and did. Before Riddle, Araminta had been tolerable. Interesting. She'd had things to say, things to show the world. The same transformation could _not _happen to Hermione. In fact, the thought made Abraxas angry, and a bit scared.

"Hey, Hermione," he said, "can I talk to you outside for a second?"

Abraxas' voice reminded Hermione of the presence of someone other than Riddle and Araminta. "Sure," she found herself saying. Her eyes stared into Riddle's for a heartbeat, but they weren't giving her anything. It was in public, so his mask was perfectly in place, as usual, not slipping, not betraying any sort of hint as to what the hell he was doing. Rage boiled hot in her stomach even as she followed Abraxas out of the Great Hall. She glanced back at Tom, and now he was looking a bit inquisitive. He cocked one eyebrow, and Hermione's eyes narrowed at him. Then he had the grace to look sort of taken aback.

She and Abraxas walked outside into the snow. "Yes?" she asked.

"I know what's happened," burst out Abraxas.

Hermione frowned. "Uh... what?" But her mind was racing. What did he know? Did he know about the Cruciatus? Was it the kiss in the potions room? Or, worst of all – was it about her past, somehow?

"Well, okay, I have a vague idea as to what's happened," Abraxas said. "I've managed to sort of piece it together, but the bottom line is – it's -"

Hermione examined his look of extreme worry. He ran a hand through his blond hair, his thick eyebrows furrowed in a frown, his grey eyes a bit glazed in discomfort. "What?" she asked gently.

"I know you've fallen for Riddle, and I can't let you do that to yourself."

Hermione stared. "What – how -"

"The way you were looking at him and Araminta, and how you spent so long healing him, and how even after he must have done something to you to – well, that's – but – even after whatever it was that made you... that made you look so uncomfortable at the Christmas Dance, even after that, you're still hanging around him." Abraxas said it all in one big rush, and Hermione was involuntarily impressed, and simultaneously a bit disturbed. What had he been doing, taking tabs on her? She'd never been _terribly_ close to Abraxas – their friendship was almost incidental, hadn't required any sort of work, especially when juxtaposed with hers and Tom's.

But the bottom line? His bottom line? He _knew_.

He didn't seem to know the whole story, though.

"I... I suppose I shouldn't let you just sit there knowing half the truth, then," Hermione said, her shrewd eyes scrutinizing his face. "Me and Riddle – we're together."

Disbelief spread across his face. "No," he said. "No. That's just what he wants you to -"

"Abraxas," Hermione said firmly, "don't you dare try and tell me you know more than I do about The Secret Motives and Evil Plots of Tom Riddle, because you don't." Then he was speechless, and Hermione gave him a gentle smile. "Look, I know it probably doesn't make much sense, but there are things I can't tell you, and believe me – it's... it's all right."

Abraxas seemed frozen in a sort of stupor, his eyes speaking to his complete disagreement. Then he unfroze a little. "Be careful, Hermione. He's not a good person."

Hermione sighed. "He's working on that," she replied calmly. "_We're_ working on it."

It felt... odd, talking to someone about it, someone who, Hermione felt, could actually borderline understand. She felt like a weight was rising from her shoulders, actually, to have told someone who might get it.

Abraxas still looked puzzled, but then he sighed and his expression cleared slightly. "All right, I guess I know less than I thought I did. But I don't... I don't like it."

Hermione nodded. "That's okay," she told him quietly.

Then the pair walked back into the Great Hall and sat back down.

"What was so urgent?" asked Araminta. Hermione's eyes flew back to Araminta's hands, which were still _wrapped around Tom Riddle's bicep_ –

"Nothing," said Abraxas smoothly. "My wand's just been acting a bit funny, and I thought Hermione might have some sort of idea as to what it was."

"Oh, really? What was wrong with it?" asked Riddle, raising one eyebrow, and Hermione could tell that he had seen right through the lie. She glared into his eyes.

"The handle was just a little _out of place_," Hermione muttered. "Needed some _realignment._"

_Like your face after we leave breakfast_. That feeling invaded again, that feeling like she might actually _explode_ if she had to look at this a second longer.

There was a general scraping clatter as the student population collectively decided breakfast was over. Hermione actually sighed in relief as Araminta's skinny hands dropped Riddle's arm. "Hey, Riddle, I've got to show you something," Hermione said.

"What type of thing?" His dark eyes still didn't show that she was anything other than mildly interesting.

"Something utterly fascinating," she replied caustically, trying to un-grit her teeth with very little success.

"Well, then, by all means," Riddle said dryly, a smirk pulling at the edge of his mouth. Hermione walked out of the Great Hall, and he followed.

Araminta sighed. "I really do feel like Tom's not telling me something about that ."

Abraxas said, "Me too," and looked after their rapidly receding backs with nothing less than blatant suspicion.

They walked around the side of the castle in silence. Then Hermione stopped, looked around, placed her hands on Riddle's chest, and pushed him against the wall, kissing him deeply. He responded a bit hesitantly, and when she broke the kiss, he said, "Was that all?"

Hermione's eyes were angry. He was a bit bewildered. What had gotten her so mad all of a sudden?

"No, Tom, that was not _all_," Hermione said, "unless you don't count another girl clinging to your arm for _the entirety of breakfast _as being something of consequence, which – oh, wait! – _I do._"

Riddle's mouth actually opened a little. He was completely aghast. "Wh-what?"

"Are you serious?" asked Hermione. "You're a smart boy, Tom. Figure it out."

Then his bewilderment changed to understanding as he observed her seething in silence, and he smirked, then, as he looked into her burning hazel eyes, because he suddenly understood exactly what was going on.

"Oh, Hermione," he sighed. "I'd tell you not to be _jealous_, but it's rather flattering, actually, and feels quite nice, so carry on."

Hermione's jaw dropped. "You have no soul!" she said, without really thinking about it.

"As you know, that is a work in progress."

"I'm not joking around, Tom," Hermione said, her tone positively murderous. "Seeing that – seeing _you_ – like _that_ – it just..." She made a strangled noise, as if kicking something, and leaned against the castle wall, breathing out hotly.

"Araminta Meliflua is _nothing_ to me," Riddle said boredly. "You _know_ that. You _understand_ that. Stop being so -"

"I know! I just – don't try to reason with me, because I still don't quite believe that just happened. And don't tell me to think rationally about it, because I already have, and it's just made me angrier."

Riddle sighed. _Girls._ "All right. Listen to yourself. You're telling me not to joke around. You're telling me not to tell you to think rationally. You're telling me not to _be reasonable._ What the hell am I supposed to say to you?"

Hermione stared at him, but did not reply.

"Well, in that case," said Riddle, and he put his hands on the castle wall behind Hermione and kissed her. He was a bit taken back by the ferocity with which she returned the gesture. One of her hands wound his scarf tight around it, pulling down on his neck, and her other arm slid around his back, tugging him tight to her.

He brought his hands to her waist, and then lifted her up. She crossed her legs around his waist, placing both hands on his cheeks as she kissed him furiously, and his arms wrapped around her back tightly, holding her in place. She let her hands slide around to the back of his neck, and the sensitive skin cried out as she rubbed over it. When she broke the kiss, she leaned down and whispered in his ear, "Do not mess with a jealous girl."

"Evidently," he replied, and let her down, her hands still laced around his neck. His lips hovered just above her ear, his breath ghosting over it whitely in the freezing air. "Don't imply that there's anyone else," he murmured fiercely, and Hermione's mouth opened in shock as his warm lips closed on the edge of her ear. She let out an audible groan and her hands grabbed fistfuls of his green sweater. His lips slowly, torturously dragged their way down her ear, making her completely weak in the knees. She couldn't believe it was her he was doing this to. She couldn't believe she could just kiss him, like she had, and he would not object. She couldn't believe she had him, and he wanted _nothing_ in return. Above all, she couldn't believe how much she _wanted_ him.

His mouth had found the hollow right under her ear, right where the sensitive skin of her neck met her jaw, and she tilted her head, feeling him starkly hot on her cold skin. Then his tongue traced its way down her neck, and she breathed in loudly and embarrassingly, and clutched to him like he was a last lifeline, like he would just vanish, like she would just _die_, right there in the snow, pressed against –

Uh, pressed against what felt like glass, all of a sudden. What felt like a window.

Riddle looked up. Seven very familiar faces were staring out of the window. He checked Hermione's expression and murmured, "We have an audience." Then he lifted a hand in a wave to the people inside.

Her eyes were wide, and her cheeks were flushed with mortification, among other things. "Why are you _waving_? Who _is_ it?" she hissed, not wanting to turn around.

"The Slytherin Quidditch team," Riddle said.

There was a second of deoxygenated horror. Hermione considered dropping flat onto the snow and wriggling out of their line of sight.

"Oh, dear Merlin," she whispered, "oh, God." She didn't seem to be able to form a coherent thought. "Tom!"

"What?" he said, looking through the window. He turned his eyes back on her slowly, and then other thoughts gently trickled from her mind. "If you're so _jealous_ for me, then why should you mind if I did this?"

He placed his hands on her shoulders, leaned her back against the window, and pressed his lips to hers, sending hot feeling surging through Hermione. He pulled away, slightly, and his dark eyes were fixed on her as he whispered, "Why should you mind if I did this?"

He bent down, his grip on her shoulders nearly uncomfortably tight, and kissed her neck, painfully gentle, excruciatingly slow, making his way down to the hollow in-between her collarbones. Hermione closed her eyes. Araminta was on the other side of that glass. Herpo was on the other side of that glass. _Abraxas_ was on the other side of that glass.

Even as she thought it, like Tom was reading her mind, he murmured, "By the way, what was that little conversation of yours and Abraxas' about, then?"

He straightened up, looking through the window, his dark eyes fixing on Abraxas, who looked utterly horrified.

"You and me."

Riddle smirked. Abraxas' grey eyes glimmered with alarm.

There was a sort of high-pitched squealing noise. Hermione mused that that was probably Araminta.

"Well, Tom," Hermione said in a hollow voice, "now that you've completely ruined my life, how about we continue this elsewhere?"

He frowned. "I rather like this spot. In particular, I like the view."

"Really." He was moving closer again, and her coherency was suffering. "I think I'd feel more comfortable if -"

"Come on, Hermione," sighed Riddle, "when have I ever liked making you comfortable?"

Then, not just a smirk, but a wicked grin spread across his face, and he slid his hands around her back, and his lips placed themselves by her ear again, where they were getting familiar – and he said, "I'd like them to know – _you're mine_."

He kissed her, more roughly than he had before, and thoughts of who was watching streamed from his mind as he frowned in satisfaction. Yes. This was right. She wasn't even replying to the entirely possessive words, which was unforeseen. He had expected some sort of fiery protest, but the fact that she made no move at all to counter the statement made sick delight light up in his stomach.

_Mine._

He stopped kissing her. She seemed to have slid down the glass several inches, involuntarily.

"You done with your power trip?" she asked wryly, her lips flushed deep pink, her eyes dancing.

Riddle rolled his eyes. "Tom Riddle is never done with his power trip."

Hermione laughed, grabbed his hand, and he allowed her to lead him away from the window – but not before he nodded one last time to Abraxas and the rest of the Quidditch team, who were just standing there, utterly speechless, watching.

xXxXxXxXx

Dinner was as absolutely nightmarish as anticipated. Hermione couldn't remember ever hearing of a Gryffindor being with a Slytherin, and she and Riddle probably seemed like the least likely match in the world. Tall, dark, dangerously attractive, quiet, perfect, Slytherin Tom Riddle, and small, fiery, overzealous, abrasive, unremarkable-looking, Gryffindor Hermione Granger? Not exactly a go-to; not exactly an appropriate match, seemingly.

And the looks from the Slytherin girls. Merlin. Hermione was vividly reminded of the phrase 'if looks could kill' as she scanned their faces. There was probably no hope for a fairly civil Araminta, now. But in fact, Araminta was sitting at the end of the table with Barda and her pretty blonde friend, very carefully not looking at Hermione, which Hermione appreciated. She never thought she would feel gratitude towards Araminta, but she did now, especially given the other (veritably homicidal) looks she was getting.

Hermione slid into Araminta's usual spot, her heart beating a little faster than usual. She couldn't bring herself to meet Abraxas' eyes. In fact, the only person she did seem to be able to look at in the immediate vicinity was Revelend, because he wasn't on the Quidditch team. Kenji Takahashi was to her right, and she was suddenly very, very aware of his presence, as well as that of Eliot Vaisey, diagonally across from her, and Andre Taylor, to Takahashi's right. All these people she barely knew had seen her and Riddle... doing things. The thought was completely humiliating. She cursed her feeble self-control, wishing she had just pushed him away. Great.

Riddle was being his usual nonverbal self, but for once, Abraxas wasn't being a talker. Herpo was quiet and shy, as usual, and the stern Revelend was just sort of looking around, as if praying for escape. The silence was beyond awkward. It was unbearable. It was the type of silence that made one thrash in pure discomfort if they were to watch it occur.

Possibly for the first time ever at dinner, Tom Riddle broke the silence. "So, how was your Quidditch meeting, then?" he asked boredly. Herpo looked relieved beyond all imagining.

"It was pretty good," Herpo replied, his nasal voice unnaturally bright. "I went over some diving maneuvers with Taylor and Kenji."

Takahashi turned a little, ending the conversation he'd been having with Andre and Vaisey. Hermione supposed that when a question was raised by Tom Riddle, an answer was required from everyone in the immediate vicinity. "Yeah," Takahashi said. "The match Saturday's going to be good, I think."

"As long as Vaisey can stay on his damn broom," laughed Andre Taylor.

Vaisey stuck out his chin awkwardly in defiance. "Look, let me explain something to you." Vaisey leaned his tall body back from the table. "Being ordered to hit a Bludger at practice doesn't mean you should aim it into my stomach, _Andre_."

Herpo chuckled. "It adds to the humor of the situation, though," he said quietly, tucking his stringy black hair behind his ear.

"Shaddup," Vaisey said, and flicked a bit of potato at Herpo, who scowled.

As the conversation progressed, Hermione sighed inwardly in relief. The silence did not return for the rest of dinner, although it seemed to have retreated to hover only around Abraxas, who didn't say a word the entire time.

xXxXxXxXx

Hermione had Disillusioned herself, humiliatingly, to sneak her way back into the Gryffindor dormitory to collect a few things – namely, Riddle's letter, which was still under her pillow, and a few books, including a couple from the library and Albus' Runic Spells book. Apparently the new password was "Hungarian Horntail", and Hermione remembered the Triwizard Tournament vividly – Harry's mental hang-up about the Summoning Charm, being pulled out of the lake in Viktor's arms, watching Harry go into that maze, unknowing that he'd be forever changed afterwards...

Riddle, on the other hand, was down in the dungeons, and the conversation he and Abraxas were having was not in the least bit pleasant.

"It's not your business," Riddle hissed, "what my personal life is."

Abraxas' grey eyes were hard. "It is when it's Hermione. She's got no one else. All your plans have completely ruined any chance she had at a normal existence here. She has _no friends_." He couldn't believe he was finally taking a stand. He couldn't believe he was finally speaking honestly with Tom Riddle – over the safety of a Muggle-born girl.

"She has _me_." Riddle's wand had suddenly appeared in his hand.

Abraxas let out a sharp laugh. "That's a joke. You don't know how to be friends with someone, not without torturing them into submission – and let me just tell you; that's not friendship. You don't know anything about _friendship._"

Riddle clenched his wand, but he did nothing. Strangely, he did not feel the urge to do anything. The words that Abraxas were saying were having a weird effect – they _hurt_. Abraxas had probably never said anything mean in his life; to hear words that could be considered cruel from his lips was appalling. "Hermione knows all about it," Riddle said quietly. "Enough to compensate."

"Don't _call_ her that!" yelled Abraxas, and the words rang around the classroom. Malfoy's eyes were practically vengeful now. "You've never called her anything but _Mudblood_ during our little meetings, and that's not something to be taken lightly!"

"I haven't called her that in a month." Riddle's wand hand trembled a little. "I will never call her that again."

"I don't even know what you're playing at." Abraxas buried a hand in his blond hair. "I don't even know what you're _doing_. No one does. Why are you doing it? You never do anything unless it's to lie and cheat your way into something you want!"

Then Abraxas was on the ground, screaming in pain, and Riddle's wand shook in his hand. "I am not _using_ her!" Riddle spat.

The curse broke, and he didn't know why. Abraxas sat up, his eyes narrowed, and through his rage he didn't notice exactly how unsettled Tom Riddle looked, how shocked, how pinned.

"You know what, Riddle," said Abraxas fiercely, "the fact is that she's just too good for you."

Riddle's eyes got almost impossibly hard, and he tucked his wand back into his pocket. He gazed at Abraxas with an almost-sadness creeping into his stare, and Abraxas somehow felt his anger draining away. "I know," replied Riddle stiffly.

There was a long, long silence. Abraxas attempted to wrap his mind around the two words, but found that he couldn't. Not when they were from the mouth of Tom Riddle. Not when they were spoken by _him_.

"This conversation is over," said Riddle, in that same steely tone of voice, and he walked from the room and shut the door behind him.

Abraxas lay his head back on the ground, staring at the ceiling. It seemed nearly impossible that he had been cursed only once – and it couldn't have been for more than five seconds. With all those candid words, well, he had predicted more pain in more quantity than he'd ever imagined, and he'd been prepared for it... but he hadn't been prepared for the truth:

Riddle had changed. However slightly, however subtly, however unapparent it may have been – he'd changed.

xXxXxXxXx

Hermione sat on the Head Girl's bed, looking around. It was a mirror image of Tom's, only she'd changed the bedcurtains to red with gold trimmings, in open defiance of her apparent exile from Gryffindor house. There was a soft knock on her door, and she flicked her wand. It creaked open.

Riddle leaned in the doorframe, looking tired.

"You all right?" asked Hermione tentatively.

He nodded. "Just had an interesting... altercation with Abraxas." Tom walked to the bed, lying down next to Hermione. "Rather disconcerting, actually."

"I hope he wasn't rude," she said in a small voice, because Abraxas' mutinous silence during dinner had definitely spoken towards legitimate mutiny in the future. "You didn't... do anything rash, did you?"

"And what if I did?" Riddle said, his voice dark.

Hermione stared at him. "What did you do?"

Riddle stretched out lazily, looking oddly vulnerable. He didn't meet her eyes.

"What did you _do_?" Hermione repeated.

"I – just – I just – it's not important what I-"

"I thought we were past this point," Hermione said quietly. "You can't just hurt someone because you _feel like it._"

"I didn't!" said Riddle, his eyes suddenly hard. "I hurt him because _what he said hurt._"

And then he flipped over so that his face was buried in Hermione's bed, and she wondered what on earth he meant, even as she leaned down and kissed the back of his neck gently, even as she nestled her nose in his soft, dark hair and kissed the top of his head. Her whisper was light in his ear. "What were you two fighting about?"

"You, of course," his muffled voice said into the bed.

Hermione swallowed. "Well, I don't care what Abraxas said about me."

He lay there, prone, waiting for the words.

"I'm yours."

She didn't care about the nature of the words, found herself not caring about the connotations of them, found herself unable to care at all that they went against everything she'd ever promised herself in a relationship. He was hers, and she was his, and that was that.

He turned over and placed his head in her lap. The look on her face as she gazed down at him – he didn't think he'd ever seen a better look on someone's face. A look of devotion. And Tom Riddle didn't care that maybe, just maybe, that look was on his face, too, not as her nimble fingers brushed his hair back into place for him and moved lightly down his cheek, not as she leaned down and pressed her lips to his, her hair hanging down around them like sweet-smelling curtains, and she drew the actual curtains and they kissed for a while more and were happy.

And that was that.


	23. Chapter 23

**Thanks to reviewers:**

**Melda, Last Laugh, 13Nyx13, looksponge, ClaireReno, Bloombright, Lost O'Fallon Girl, Cirkeline, BooklvrAnnie, Chequisha, Israe, MissImpossible, Hamelia Le Claire, slytherinangel01, Jen, HardCritic, Noitar Arat, BethanyTeresa, blue-rox-my-sox, cocoartist, Proudly Weird, NougatEvolution, Serpent In Red, gentlemidnite, secret, Anna on the Horizon, magentasouth, RisottonoCheese, Adrenaline Junkie in da House, slayerb8, sweet-tang-honney, bingbing196, HorseLoverTW, bwahahaha XD, sweetgal3, VeniVidiVici92, A. Ymous, angel226, november21, mngurl07, Caz, ber1719, aaaand melancholya.**

**Y'all rock. Here's chapter 23.**

* * *

Riddle felt like something was missing from this equation.

He wasn't sure whether he had everything he wanted, or nothing at all.

Everyone in the castle knew what he was capable of, now. His nice-boy cover had been blown. That was frustrating, to be sure. On the other hand, he still had his followers to rely on. Yet Abraxas had disassociated himself from Riddle completely, and that was unexpectedly unpleasant.

But he had Hermione, and as she'd said herself – _I'm yours –_ she was his. A perfect intellectual other half.

Riddle weighed out the situation. He felt like he was missing a component. He felt like he wasn't factoring something in.

Well, the horcruxes, of course, but thinking about those would just incite panic, and he wasn't feeling panicked, so it wasn't the horcruxes that were giving him this unsatisfied feeling. What _was_ it?

"You seem preoccupied. More so than usual," said Hermione from the sofa.

He turned an eye on her. "I can't figure something out, and it's bothering me."

"What is it?"

"No. Something is bothering me, and I can't figure out _what_ it is," Riddle sighed, rubbing his eye with a finger. "Which is, needless to say, incredibly annoying."

"Okay, er, is … is it Abraxas?" Hermione asked. He'd been a bit touchy about the subject lately, because Abraxas wasn't even looking at Riddle these days, and the so-called-disrespect that such an action demonstrated was probably a bit much for Riddle's delicate ego.

"No."

"Is it something about me?" was her next question.

He started to say 'no', stopped, frowned, and looked at her carefully. "Actually, yes," he replied, his clipped tone a bit surprised. "Yes, it is."

She saw satisfaction fill his eyes, and he looked back at his book, seemingly content.

"Well, aren't you going to tell me what it is?" she asked, as if it were obvious.

"No, I'm not." He didn't look up from the book. "I don't feel inclined to." But it was more than that, he mused. If he started demanding to know exactly how she'd died, the potential risks were great, and the chances at success were slim at best. Though there was something _else_ about her history that he could use as a cover for the deeper problem, if she happened to push him. She looked like she was in the mood to do so.

"Lovely," Hermione said, crossing her arms and sitting back on the sofa. She stared at him, and she did not relent.

He pretended he didn't notice for a while, but it proved a bit distracting in the end. "I know looking at me is a favorite pastime of yours, but I'd prefer it if I could read in peace."

"No. What bothers you?"

"Besides your unfailing obduracy?"

"Yes, besides that."

He marked his page and shut his book, placing it on the end table. Then he stood, stretching with a yawn. "I wouldn't think you'd like to talk about it."

Hermione's expectant look faded into resignation. "Fine, Tom," she sighed melodramatically, standing up and snapping her own book shut. "I'll just leave, then."

She left, shutting the door with more force than was necessary. Riddle rolled his eyes. Her dramatics never ceased to amaze.

So he returned to his armchair and continued reading – to be specific, A Study of Pain and Potency: Maddened Empowerment. A choice that Hermione had most definitely not endorsed, although it was fascinating.

He couldn't believe that when he had used Legilimency, her death hadn't been one of the first events to surface. But he hadn't thought to look for any hint of her attempting to hide something, because under the influence of that potion, the idea of her concealing anything was ludicrous.

Also, he had closed his eyes at one point, unintentionally blocking some of her memories – and then he had withdrawn altogether. It wasn't entirely implausible that he had missed it, though the thought was too frustrating to entertain. He fully understood the appeal of concealing a past that needed concealment, but surely her death could be nothing compared to everything else he'd seen. Maybe he ought just to ask her.

No – she wouldn't tell him. She had refused even to broach the subject several times before, a very hollow look about her, when it came up in conversation.

But this _curiosity!_ It was terrible. It flavored the way he looked at her, which was alarming. When he looked at her quietly reading, he would think, _what are you hiding from me?_ and then divert his thoughts elsewhere. Not good to focus on what was _not_ there with Hermione, especially when there was so much already out in the open.

Especially when he knew so much as opposed to her knowing so very little.

Could that possibly coax her to speak about it? If he offered to open up to her?

Riddle swallowed and reached for his wand for comfort, mulling over the idea. Hermione was hardly easy to bargain with. Her stubbornness made a reasonable negotiation seem completely unrealistic, and she was intelligent enough that she would see if he was trying to cheat her out of that memory. He couldn't offer to show her a memory of his choosing in return. Not when she didn't know his memories in their entirety… not when she didn't know which one would be a fair trade.

Then again, he had seen everything about her life. Everything ever. She would think that the only fair compromise, probably, was a full trade – everything about his life for everything about hers.

Riddle's lip curled into an unbecoming sneer, and a rush of animosity coursed through him. This was so juvenile – juvenile and unnecessary. If she belonged to him, could he not just demand that she show him the memory?

He suppressed that thought regretfully.

Riddle adjusted himself tentatively to the idea of opening his memory to Hermione. He had never done so to anyone in his life, and the notion terrified him. He knew what she would find there, of course, but she would be going in unprepared, _completely_ unprepared. What if she returned from his memory with eyes filled with disgust, and – worse – _pity?_ Tense anger prickled at Riddle's skin. Pity. As if she were superior.

She'd been careful of that in the past, though – she'd never looked at him with pity, because pity required surprise. If she hadn't known his true nature from the very beginning, she might have pitied him for who, and what, he was, but that hadn't been possible given that prior knowledge.

Just the idea, though – the thought of someone sifting through his _mind_, as if anyone was worthy to trespass on the grounds of his very _brain_...

He hadn't judged Hermione for what he'd seen of her. He'd observed the circumstance and seen how she'd handled it. Surely she would do the same... if he were to offer her this possibility...

The notion was slow to set in, and Riddle was surprised to find that he, ultimately, didn't find it repulsive beyond belief, which meant –

Which meant he had the ultimate bargaining tool, one that she surely could not refuse. In fact, if she refused it, Riddle would be more than shocked – he would be downright offended. As if willing, conscious access to Tom Riddle's mind were something easily obtained.

It had to be soon, before curiosity about her death consumed him.

Riddle checked the door.

She wasn't coming back in. It had been almost half an hour.

Riddle hoped he hadn't actually succeeded in angering her. That would be inconvenient.

He put down his book and made his way to her room. She had set the password on her door to _Chudley Cannons_, telling him that it was a Quidditch team, and that the word was her go-to pass phrase. Riddle wondered a bit about that. After all, Hermione had said she was never a great fan of Quidditch, even the non-violent version. Riddle wasn't a fan either. Especially not of the non-violent version.

He tapped the doorknob and knocked once, opening the door a crack. "Look, I -"

Then he broke off. Hermione was in her bed, her eyes closed in sleep. Squeezed closed, actually, and her mouth was slightly open. Her fists were wound into the bedsheets, grabbing on like she was being pulled at by the ankles, and even as Riddle watched, she gritted her teeth and started to murmur under her breath. It must have been some nightmare.

He walked swiftly to her side and reached out a hand, but before it touched her shoulder, he made out a word.

_Ron._

His hand faltered and then dropped to his side. She said it again.

"No – anyone but Ron, please..." Her voice was strained, like she was remembering pain. Then two words, words that made Riddle's throat tighten, words that made his eyes narrow. "My Ron."

He started to lift his hand again, but let it fall once more. Then he turned and strode from the room.

Attempts to resume reading proved useless. He couldn't concentrate. Why did it matter about her moronic ex-boyfriend? The Ron character was back on earth, and Riddle was with Hermione, and that was all that mattered, right?

Except that it _wasn't_. If she was still thinking about Ron, _dreaming_ about him, then surely those words, those satisfying words – _I'm yours_ – had been false.

And that thought angered him. Immensely.

Riddle paced back and forth in front of the fire, running a hand through his hair. Was this the type of feeling that Hermione had had when she had been jealous about Araminta?

No. There was no way those feelings were comparable. Not a chance. Ron and Hermione had been together, had been torn apart by the hands of fate – had been _in love._ And she'd been tossed here, and had just happened to stumble across Riddle. For a second, he felt like he couldn't hold a candle to the memory of Ron Weasley – after all, absence made the heart grow fonder – but he shot down the thought. She was with him now. No matter their differences, no matter their conflicts, she was _with him._ Not Ron. Not anymore.

But if she had the _choice_ between him and Ron, what would she do? Riddle was perfectly aware that he himself was different from every other boy in the world. Ron was likely an average, functional, probably _nice_ person. Someone Hermione could relax around, who she wouldn't be afraid to make fun of, someone who didn't have to be_ taught_ everything about _innocence_. Riddle couldn't give her that, and he couldn't pretend he could. What if – what if she still had feelings for Ron? What if Ron happened to show up here? Then who would she choose?

Riddle, more than most anyone, knew how powerful a _memory_ could be. And now... now the memory of this Ron boy – not even his own memory! – was tying a brick to his mood.

He tossed another log on the fire and turned to see a sleepy-looking Hermione standing just inside the door.

"What?" he demanded, not realizing how rude he sounded.

She raised one eyebrow. "Excuse you," she said acidly. "Anyway, I came to apologize for pressing you on the issue."

Riddle turned away from her and leaned his head on the mantel, heat from the fire soaking into his robes. "How about you explain what your dream was about just now?"

"What?"

"I walked in to apologize for being flippant, and I was met with the knowledge that apparently you talk in your sleep," Riddle said.

Hermione sucked in a sharp breath. What had he heard? She couldn't remember a thing about her dream – it had only been a short nap, after all – but she'd thought she'd stopped talking in her sleep long ago. "Oh?" she managed.

"Yes." His voice sounded forced. He turned, and his dark features looked a bit dangerous as his tall body blocked out most of the firelight. "Come here."

"No," she said, "and don't order me around. I don't appreciate it_._"

Tom's eyes darkened further. He swept away from the fire. "I know you wouldn't know what you were saying, but I really am quite... unsettled." His long fingers absentmindedly twisted the sleeves of his robes.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Hermione said, her voice low and a bit frightened. The way he was approaching her was predatory.

"I don't know if you've been lying to me, but if what you said just now is true, then I won't know what to think."

"_I was asleep! _Tom, stop it. You're scaring me."

The words seemed to get to him, and he blinked and stopped a few feet from her. His face pulled into a frown, and he rubbed at his temple with a long finger, as if massaging away a thought. "Sorry."

"I just want to know what it was," said Hermione. But he didn't say anything, just pressed her against the door and kissed her hard.

When he broke the kiss, she thought he was going to say something, but his dark eyes just fixed on her lips and he kissed her again. Then he trailed over to the sofa and sat down, and Hermione tentatively took the seat next to him.

"In essence, you said, 'My Ron,'" murmured Riddle, not looking at her.

Hermione's breath caught in her throat. She couldn't talk about Ron with him. Not without being in severe danger of crying hysterically, and that was not an appealing option. "I see."

"I don't like being second to anyone," Riddle said. "Not ever." His eyes found hers again, but they had lost their edge. He looked like he was asking for something, now, like there was a forgotten request in his face.

"I know," she replied, "and it very rarely happens, and it's not happening now."

She reached out, but he shied away from her hand. "Do you still love him?" Riddle asked.

The world seemed to stop turning. That question. That question she'd been asking herself for weeks on end, coupled with devastating guilt over who exactly was replacing him.

Hermione gave him the only honest answer she had. "I don't know."

Riddle shut his eyes and let out a breath. "Hermione," he said, his voice carefully concealing irritation, "what am I supposed to do? Just give you time to _get over him_ or something like that? If you're still... _in love_ with someone else, then this is a waste of my time, and of yours."

The words seemed to freeze something inside her. "This is not a waste of my time," she said. "I know that much."

He looked back to the fire, his hands slowly dropping to fold between his thighs. "I don't know what you're doing to me," he said. "Insecurity is not something I'm accustomed to feeling, and I don't enjoy it. It's not like this boy is a _threat_ to me. Why should I care?"

"There's no conscious decision associated with caring. If you care about my history with Ron, you do, and that's all there is to it."

"This is going to eat at my patience. It's already started to. I've got all these questions." He turned to face her, eyes feverish with discomfort. "When I'm speaking with you, are you thinking of him? Are you... I don't know, subconsciously comparing my every move with every move of his? When I touch you, is it me you want or is it _him_? Do you think of him when I kiss you?"

Hermione sighed. "I guarantee you that I have _never_ thought of Ron while kissing you. _Never_." He was staring at her, like he didn't believe her, like he didn't understand. "Do you hear me?" she whispered. "I wouldn't _do _that. I couldn't if I tried."

Riddle closed his eyes, letting the words wash over him, a single soothing current on a sea of burning jealousy.

She continued, "Yes, I _loved_ Ron. I don't know what my feelings are now, but they're confused, more than anything else, and the point is that it doesn't really _matter_. Whatever I might feel for Ron is irrelevant. He's not here. I'm not with him."

It hurt Hermione to say, but not as much as it had in the past. The wound was healing.

Hermione swallowed. She felt like if she kept talking, she would say something that would hurt Tom, some sign of affection for Ron that would enrage him. So she just sat back, waiting for him to reply.

He didn't.

"Okay," Hermione said, standing up. "I'm going to go get some dinner. Would you like to come?"

He gave a slight jerk of his head. Hermione sighed and kissed him on the forehead. "Don't think too hard. I know that's a stretch for you, but do try."

Her walk down to the Great Hall was fretful. She hadn't known he cared about Ron so much. She'd thought that his self-esteem was so outlandishly high that he wouldn't consider her being with anyone else, wouldn't even consider her being able to _think_ about someone else. But more – she hadn't realized how much the idea of his being jealous unsettled her. If he was jealous, would he pull away from her? Would he start to distance himself, put her at arm's length as he had always done in the past?

Actually – that wasn't true. It wasn't in the past that he was holding her away. It was _still happening._ She still didn't know a thing about his history, really, not besides loose facts. He knew everything about her and had sway over her mind, her emotions, even her body. How was it fair?

She tried to tell herself that he wasn't trying to make this just another manipulation, just another relationship in which he had _all the power_, but she found that she couldn't. He had her in the grip of emotions she hadn't felt so strongly in – well, she didn't know if they'd _ever_ been so strong, since being with Ron had always been tempered by fear about their situation, by anger over one of their fights, by worry about his safety. And the one thing Hermione was not worried about at _all_ was Tom Riddle's safety. He was in control of everything – it was laughable to fret about his safety. Even if... even if he had been back on earth, even if it had always been him.

Hermione had always been the strong one, when it had come to Ron. But now her partner was more than a force to contend with – he was a force that didn't worry about letting his strength surface anytime he felt like it. Back on earth, when Hermione had been in Ron's arms, she had felt scared of everything but him, and he had been her solace; now, when she was with Tom, she felt scared of nothing _except_ him, and that... well, it exhilarated her, bizarrely. It was precarious. Most of all, it was unbelievable that she could ask him to do something and he would, that she had influence over this brilliant, dangerous mind.

She sat down at the end of the Gryffindor table, too wrapped up in her thoughts to care about the eyes on her. It wasn't fair that Tom knew so much about her when she still knew next to nothing about him. It wasn't fair at all, actually, and Hermione started to feel very indignant. Hadn't he ripped her very memories from her? Shouldn't he at least have told her _something_ about himself in return? That curiosity that she hadn't felt in so long – that curiosity that had died after he'd tricked her – it flared back into life with passion.

Hermione frowned, chewing her pie slowly.

That one time he had let down his guard still stuck in Hermione's mind, that expression surfacing as easily as if it were always just lurking beneath the surface, waiting to be summoned. She still hadn't seen him return to that, and all because she'd said _I'm sorry._ But it had been an _I'm sorry_ of sympathy, not a regular apology – and that must have been what had set it off. Riddle wouldn't want anyone to feel like they could understand him; of course not.

She _had_ to know what that _look_ was, had to know where it had all gone terribly wrong. Maybe that would explain why he couldn't feel remorse. He'd said he felt guilt about hurting her, even guilt about ruining lives back on earth, but that wasn't enough. He had to feel _remorse_. Deep, painful, soulful, unshakable remorse. It didn't matter what it was about. He just had to feel it, somehow, had to feel like hurting someone was _wrong_. Not just acknowledging that she'd been hurt, with a twinge of regret.

Hermione scooped some food onto a plate for him. He was just being overdramatic; he was probably hungry by this point. She sighed and stood, brushing her hair out of her eyes. How irritating, that she talked in her sleep... she couldn't let that one detail, that one _very_ important detail, slip. She didn't know how he'd react.

After all – it seemed that she was the only person he'd ever really managed to care about, besides himself, and Hermione suddenly felt like that was a very large burden to bear. He was protective of her. He was _jealous_ for her. Probably for the first time in his _life._

How had she managed it? She couldn't remember. She had just been trying to find out about him, the whole time, and had been so taken aback when she realized he meant more to her than that...

She knocked on his door, and then tapped the knob. He was still sitting on the sofa where she'd left him. She handed him his plate, and he started to eat wordlessly, and even as she just sat down and observed him, she was stunned by a wave of affection that rushed through her, affection for his mannerisms, for his voice, for his eyes, for every part of him.

Hermione swallowed, sliding down the sofa into a slouch. She wondered how he would react if she ever used the word 'love' – in the context of the words 'I love you.' What would he say? What would he do? She'd definitely have to give him some time to think over it before he could answer, give him time just to figure out what she meant... he wouldn't know what it was, surely. Most _normal_ people couldn't even define the word love.

But, weirdly, so bizarrely, she felt like the day when she used that word couldn't be far in the future. In a way, she did love him. She loved what they had become, loved what he had made of himself, loved that he had diverged from the path he'd taken on earth.

Another sweep of affection attacked, surging up through her toes in a crescendo, blossoming into pulsing fondness.

He placed his plate on the end table, and finally, _finally_ looked at her. "I'm being immature," he said quietly.

"No, you're being human."

He breathed out slowly. "So… it's all right? You understand?"

"I very rarely understand you, but I'd say I have an inkling."

Their kiss was soft, almost understated. "You've done... a lot for me," Riddle said. "I feel petty pushing you away over something like this."

"It's hardly inconsequential." She rested her hand on his. His fingers curled around hers. She reached for words again, but couldn't find any. Instead, she kissed him, and they slowly stood, both her hands clasped gently in his, and he led her to his bed, drawing the curtains.

Riddle couldn't stop thinking, though, for a change. It was surely an insult to Hermione, treating her as he had all his other conquests, not stopping his thought process to lend himself fully to her – but he couldn't take his mind from her past, from all that horror leading up to her eventual death. That death, the one he didn't know yet, the one he hadn't had the courage to pursue yet…

Suddenly, she pulled away, taking her hands from his chest. "Are you all right? Tom? I can leave you alone, if you'd like."

He blinked. Of course she'd know when he wasn't all there. She wasn't _like_ his conquests, after all. She knew him. She was there for him, as no one had ever been.

He didn't reply, just curled himself around her body, her curves fitting onto his embrace like she was a forgotten half. He slowly moved her hair back and kissed her neck. Then his low voice murmured, "This is better than being alone."

Hermione felt his warm chest pressed against her back, felt his legs tangled up in hers, and she shrank back towards him until no space separated them. His arms wrapped around her, and they just lay there, practically breathing in unison, neither daring to think for fear that the other might hear their deepest secrets.

xXxXxXxXx

Abraxas had come to apologize, sort of. He was scared of Riddle's hypothetical reaction, but part of him felt like he had wronged the other boy, which didn't make sense given all that Riddle had done to him. Oh, well – things rarely made any sense whatsoever around Tom Riddle, thoughts and feelings included. Anyway, Abraxas really did miss speaking with Hermione, and he even sort of missed Riddle, which was also completely bizarre, but Abraxas felt like if Riddle had been, well, a regular human being, then they would have been friends. It was just the circumstance of Riddle being an evil bastard that had kept that from happening, really, and who knew? Maybe that was just how he'd been born, or something.

He knocked on the door lightly and tapped the doorknob. It was past eleven o'clock; surely Riddle was awake.

But no – his hangings were still drawn, and the only sound in the room was deep breathing.

Abraxas was suddenly struck with utter curiosity. What did Riddle look like when he was asleep? When he let down his guard? When he was, above all, vulnerable?

Hardly believing his own nerve, Abraxas made his way over to the bed, his feet silent on the wood floor. He flicked his wand, shuttering the windows so that Riddle wouldn't wake from the light, and then twitched the hangings open slightly.

His breath was knocked from his chest. Riddle wasn't alone in the bed. Hermione lay there too, and the way they looked shocked Abraxas to the core. She was flush against shirtless Riddle, his arms were wrapped around her waist, and her head fit perfectly under his chin. Abraxas stared at her – on her lips was a small smile.

But what really caught his eye was Riddle's face. There was a small crease between his eyebrows, and his jaw was set. He looked _protective_, as if someone were coming to take the girl from his arms. There was no victorious look on his face, no expression of triumph, no success. Riddle had always seemed to assume that everything would come perfectly to him, that everything would work out exactly the way he wanted. He had certainly always taken Abraxas for granted. But the way he looked now was not a look of _I-meant-for-this-to-happen._ It was unassuming, modest, like Hermione had happened to fall into his arms and he was _grateful_ for it.

What the _hell_?

Abraxas must have stood there for a full minute before even being able to think properly. This was not the look of a relationship full of manipulation and evil. This was how normal people looked together. This was how two people _in love_ looked.

Abraxas swallowed. He had once had that look on his face, back before the horcrux, before he'd gotten greedy and wanted to spend eternity on earth with her. With Cassiopeia Black, the haughty, proud, beautiful, fiery girl of his dreams. And he remembered being with her. He remembered being around her just as Riddle was around Hermione right now.

His horcrux had been created, and suddenly he'd arrived here, like a bit of him had seeped out and made its way to this other world. And he had felt so tricked, so destroyed. He had wanted eternity with Cassie, not away from her.

Until he learned that he was still there, back on earth – but he was _changed_. He had tried to convince the Wizengamot, apparently, to draft legislation forbidding Muggle-borns from getting high-ranked jobs in the Ministry of Magic. The family prejudice had twisted itself into utter hatred. And, according to R.J. King, who'd been at school with his son, Lucius had been raised to be the biggest son-of-a-bitch prat on the face of the earth.

Abraxas closed the curtains and left, his memories spilling over painfully. He wondered if he was still alive on earth, wondered if that horcrux was still there, wondered how much longer he'd be trapped in this hellish in-between. Was his horcrux destroyed, and it was only other magic keeping him here now? That was his greatest hope, because other bonds faded quickly, and then – coupled with that deep ache in his chest, that utter pain at having killed that Muggle woman so selfishly – he would leave. Move on, like he'd been waiting to do for far too long.

xXxXxXxXx

Hermione woke as he kissed her, an altogether pleasant awakening. "Good morning," she whispered as he slowly pressed his lips to her cheek.

"It is a good morning," he replied, his voice smooth and perfect even after having just woken up.

"Why?"

His mouth didn't lift from her neck to answer. Hermione restrained an unladylike noise as his teeth gently teased her.

Then he moved away, sighed, and let his arm settle comfortably around her. "Because I can do that without you attempting to curse me."

Hermione turned her head towards him and raised an eyebrow. "If I wanted to curse you, I would," she said. "No 'attempt' about it."

He smirked. "Whatever you say."

She elbowed him in the ribs, and he nudged her with his shoulder in response.

Hermione turned onto her side and placed a hand on his pale chest, her thumb gently circling over and over. She let out a small breath that tickled over his bare skin and closed her eyes, his hand comfortably on the small of her back. It was dim behind the bedcurtains, only a trace of morning sun shining through them, and in the dim light Hermione felt like she couldn't possibly be any more relaxed.

Well, relaxed silences were made to be broken.

"Hermione," Riddle said, "I have a proposition for you."

* * *

**Oh hey. I wanted to take the time to thank you guys from the bottom of my heart for the outlandish 700+ reviews this story has. I never thought I'd ever write anything that'd get this many. Having such a responsive audience is really helpful and really fantastic.**

**With love,**

**Speechwriter**


	24. Chapter 24

**The last chapter, this story broke 800 reviews. Which is... what? Oh, right, RIDICULOUS. Thanks for making it happen –**

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**Speechwriter.**

* * *

"What type of proposition?" Hermione asked slowly.

"Well," said Tom, "I feel as if I've been withholding information from you."

She let out a snort of laughter. "That's _such_ a change from usual."

He placed a finger to her lips and continued. "I propose a trade."

Hermione wasn't sure she liked the sound of this. "Go on?"

"I'll let you cast Legilimens on me," he continued, "and sort through whatever memories you may wish. It – it shall be hard, for me, but I'm willing to compromise."

"In exchange for..."

"I would like to see how you were killed."

Hermione tried to stop her heart from falling into a sprint.

She had a chance – _finally_ – maybe her only chance – to see his life. To understand him. To understand _everything._ It seemed almost laughable that she might reject that choice – but then... but then for them both to see Hermione flinging herself into the Room of Requirement, huddled in that comfortable room for four days, having brought only so much food, but _so scared, _so _terrified_ to leave, and then being interrupted by a nightmare... reliving it in torturous detail while Riddle pored over her last memory of _Lord Voldemort_ – could she stand that?

Another thought flooded her mind. She was borderline-disturbed, because she had had nearly an identical thought while she'd been under the influence of that love potion – _and how could I do it to him, either?_

Hermione swallowed. He was looking intently at her. She moved her head a little, resting it against his chest, feeling his heart beat calmly.

Curiosity killed the cat. But was that him or her?

"Okay."

"Promise?" he asked quietly.

"Promise."

She felt him let out a slow breath, and his hand trailed its way through her hair, and he kissed her. "Thank you," he murmured. "Thank you."

Hermione hoped she knew what she'd done.

"So... when?" she said.

"Now?" he suggested.

"Might as well."

They both sat up. Hermione reached through the bedcurtains and got their wands from the bedside table. She handed him his.

She swallowed. She couldn't believe it had been this easy. After everything she'd gone through just to get an _inkling_ – he was letting her into his mind, and all she had to tell him was just _one thing_. Her wand hand shook just a bit as she raised her wand. He closed his eyes, and Hermione suddenly felt a bit hesitant. He looked filled with absolute dread.

Then curiosity swept her anew. What could he be dreading reliving so much? _Things that hurt too much to tell anyone..._

"Legilimens," she said softly, and then the spell took hold, and she was whisked into his mind like a rowboat engulfed by a stormy sea.

He was five years old, a thin, pale, dark-eyed boy, staring out of his window, sitting on a graying bed, surrounded by graying walls, at the other children playing on the ground below. And he was reading quietly, a small dark book, but the image shifted –

It was six-year-old Tom's first day at school, and his teacher, a red-haired woman, marveled at how intelligent he was, and all the other children shot each other glances, shot him glances, looks that so clearly read _you're different_, gazes that so clearly read _stay away_, and young Tom sat up a little straighter and just focused on the praise – after all, it wasn't like this was difficult, adding, dividing, subtracting, multiplying numbers – simple stuff, elementary stuff –

A different teacher, now, a tall, blond, male teacher, and Tom was surrounded by children who looked to be a year or two older, and one of them, the one next to him, who had darkly tanned skin, black hair and brown eyes, leaned over and said, "Have you done this one? It's giving me a little trouble," and Tom shot him a bit of a puzzled glance and circled something in the other boy's answer, and the other boy said, "Thanks" –

Tom sat in that room again, in the orphanage, and a chant from a few boys echoed up from the field – "Beautiful sun, beautiful day, Tom's too strange to come out and play" – and Tom was hugging his knees to his chest miserably, staring at the dim lightbulb in his room, and then – just like that – it wobbled and exploded – and his eyes widened, and the image flipped –

And back in that classroom again, the boy next to him was saying, "You're Tom, right? You must be really smart, to be in this year – I'm Neil," and a handshake, a bit of a mistrustful handshake, and Neil said, "I'm eight, how old are you?" and Tom said, "Six," and Neil's eyes widened, and he said, "Wow, that's really great," and looked back up at that tall blond teacher who was writing something on the board, and Tom blinked in mild confusion but found himself smiling a little and the image spun –

The girl was short and had brown hair, and she was sticking her tongue out, saying rude things just as everyone always did, and Tom gritted his teeth, and suddenly her feet just fell out from under her like they were meant to do that, and Tom's eyebrows rose on his thin, pale face, and he looked around, and the girl started to cry, and the next thing Tom knew he was in his bedroom and not eating any dinner – but he realized, then, with a dawning look on his face, that he _was_ different, but that it was _good_, that he could do these things just because he _wanted_ –

The teacher, Mr. Peterson, was looking at him strangely as he passed back the papers – a perfect score for Tom, and an eighty-six for Neil – and the teacher said quietly, "Tom, could you please stay after class," and Neil shot Tom a bit of an uneasy glance and after the teacher had walked away Neil said, "Be careful, Tom, you don't want to make Mr. Peterson mad, you really don't," and Neil looked carefully back at his paper even though Tom asked, "What do you mean," and he didn't reply –

He wanted the ball, and he didn't see why the other boy just wouldn't give it to him – and he had a thunderous scowl on his face, a look that Hermione recognized, and suddenly the other boy was yelling, screaming, and the ball was on the ground, a small splash of color on the dirt, and the other boy was clutching his wrist, and Tom's eyes widened in a bit of fear and he was snatching the toy and running away – but there was nothing to eat that night, either, even as Tom bounced the ball against his wall with a half a smirk on his face – _thud – thud – thud – thud_ –

And then everything changed.

"I don't understand what I did wrong," said the voice of Tom, and he was standing in front of a teacher's desk, but there was no one behind it, and Hermione heard the door shutting behind him, and then back to the desk walked Mr. Peterson, and he said, "Tom, I think you've been cheating on your tests, and that's not good – not at all," and Tom said, "No, honestly, I haven't, I swear," and the teacher said, "I'm going to have to tell someone about this," and Tom said, "No, don't do that – don't -"

and Peterson said, "What will you do for me not to say a word?"

But the image flipped before Hermione could grab a hold on it, and then it was Tom fixing his eyes on his bedroom door, and it swung open, and then shut again, and then open, and then shut again, the lightbulb swaying a little in the breeze, and Hermione was shocked to see that blank, dead look on his young face, and then it was Tom lying on his bed, doing nothing at all, staring at the ceiling, and then it was Tom just standing there in the yard looking utterly blank, and a voice very clearly said, "He's just _weird,_" but Tom didn't even seem to take any notice –

Back to the classroom, and Hermione felt her heart thudding a little in fear as Tom asked, "What do you mean, what will I do? I'll do anything, please don't put me back in the first year –" for in his mind, surely nothing could be worse than returning to those barbarians –

An unbelievably clear image, the teacher's face in the dim classroom, his lips pulling into an ugly smirk, and there was a look in his eyes, one of clear, sick satisfaction, and Peterson said, "Good – well, I'll just need you to do this one little thing for me, and then this will all go away, how does that sound?"

"Thank you, Mr. Peterson," and Tom's eyes were wide with innocent relief, and Hermione watched with terrified horror as Peterson stood and made his way around the desk, the six-year-old boy in front of him staring up at him with wide eyes, and Peterson said, "Remember, this is our secret, otherwise I'll make sure everyone in first year knows about your cheating -"

Tom nodded, and Hermione could see the fear in his young face, even through the disbelief that Peterson thought he was cheating, but then there was a noise that changed everything, a noise that made Hermione clench her eyes tight shut, a noise of a zipper sliding open –

Terrible noises. Terrible sounds. Hermione kept her eyes closed, and she heard the scream of Tom's young voice and she couldn't keep herself from shaking in utter horror, hardly able to breathe –

_Oh, God, oh God – oh my God – _

And then the noise changed, and Hermione opened her eyes, and Tom was sitting at his desk, looking hollow, looking empty, and Neil was looking over at him and saying, "You all right?" and Tom was just looking back at him, his mouth open a little, not saying anything, and then after a second he managed to say, "Yes," and Neil looked quite relieved, until Mr. Peterson walked over and placed a paper with a big red 55 on Neil's desk and said, "Mr. Gonzalez, I'll need to be seeing you after class," and just for a heartbeat of a second there was a look on Neil's face, a _look_, and Tom turned his eyes back to his own desk, his face utterly devoid of anything at all, but now he understood – he understood that Neil had known all along what was going to happen _because it was happening to him_ –

A harsh _slap_, and the matron spat, "You are terrible; you are filthy; I can't believe you would hurt Annabel like that – just because you're a filthy bastard child with a dead mother and a father who couldn't care less – " and another _slap_ and Tom bit his tongue and said nothing, and Hermione knew he probably couldn't say anything even if he wanted to –

Thoughts, or fragments of them, rang out in his young voice.

_mother I want my mother why did you leave me mother why did you die why _

A whisper in Tom's ear, a big, low whisper, "Cheating again? See me after class," and Tom blinked but didn't let a thing show, and he said, "Okay," his voice small and defeated and broken, and Hermione felt like her heart would break as she saw the door opening on an empty classroom, and she closed her eyes tight, willing the memory to just fly by, but no – and this time there were noises of _something_ hitting skin, and cries of pain, _screams_ of pain, and Hermione tried to block them out but they wouldn't be blocked, and then the noise stopped and she thought it was over but she opened her eyes and there was a leather belt in the teacher's hand, one that had red stains on it, and she shut her eyes again, her heart suddenly going a million miles a second, a whimper working itself unbidden from her throat –

And the worst part of it was feeling how Tom had been so ingratiated to this man, for keeping him from those preying stares of the other children, the first years – so it had to be – it had to be okay – he should be _thankful_, right? – so why was it hurting? –

_mother if you were here if you hadn't left me this would never have happened_

And then Tom was sitting in the classroom during a lesson, but there was an empty space to his side, nothing there at all – no Neil, but where had he gone? – _is he gone like father or gone like mother _and nothing in Tom's face, and nothing in his eyes, and his mouth was open a little as if he were surprised by something, and then something was on his desk – a paper with a circled 88 on it, a beautifully _average_ mark, and Tom let out a silent sigh of relief, his small body seeming to quiver a tiny bit in the thin shoulders –

Something was on fire, and the acrid smell burnt Hermione's nose, and Tom sat on his bed and looked at the rug on the stone floor even as it curled and burned in red shame –

_I'm special. I'm different._

_I don't need my dead mother or my father because I am special_

_I am different_

_I am special and I am different_

Neil wasn't back, but there was a woman in front of the class that day, a kindly-looking old woman, and she said, "Mr. Peterson is going through a bit of... personal trouble, so he won't be returning," and Tom wouldn't let himself look relieved, even though no one was looking at him, but he wouldn't, _couldn't_ let that look show on his face, even though there was some boy two seats over that seemed to be visibly shaking in relief –

Then, the cover of a newspaper, and Tom was standing and staring at it in the street, for it was _his _face, Peterson's face, on the cover –

And Tom was sitting in an office, a small office, with a woman behind a desk fixing him with a stare that was chock-full of pity, pity, _pity_, and she said, "Did he ever try to make you do anything you were uncomfortable with?" and Tom whispered, "He said to keep it a secret; he said it was a secret," and the woman replied, "I'll keep it a secret, no one will ever know except me and a couple of other very nice ladies," and Tom stared down at his knees and didn't say a thing –

Tom was reading that article... _rape and murder_... unfamiliar words, and he looked them up, but as he read the definitions, nothing came over his face, for surely they had to be normal things to happen, for if one of those words had happened to him, and both words had happened to Neil, it had to be commonplace, surely; if he was so young and something like that was happening to him it had to be _normal_, and he read about halfway through the article until he found a quote, a quote that burned into his mind – _"I'm not sorry," said Peterson on questioning, "I will never be sorry"_ – and Tom tossed down the newspaper and didn't read the rest of it, but the fact was that Neil was _gone, forever,_

_Just like everyone else always had been_

_Mama_

and Tom threw himself onto his bed and buried his face into the pillow but tears wouldn't come and he curled up in absolute, abject terror – if it was _that easy _to die – if so many people could just be _gone,_ just like that – then couldn't _he_? No matter how special he was, no matter how different he was –

_mama I don't want to leave the world like you left me_

_I don't want to follow Neil I don't want to follow you_

And then, so many voices. Female voices. The voice of that lady in the office who knew the secret, and the others she'd told. "Tom, I'm sorry." "Tom... I'm sorry." "Tom, I'm so, so, _sorry,_" _I'm sorry Tom, Tom I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry _a wave of_ useless pity _– and – and what would it ever _do?_ What could it ever _fix?_ It would never fix his dead mother and it would never fix his missing father and it would never fix his _murdered_ friend and Tom _g-r-i-t-t-e-d his t-e-e-t-h_ and didn't want to hear those words – _never_ – _not ever –_

not

ever

again

_noteveragain_

"There's something _wrong_ with you," hissed the matron, and _slap, slap, slap_, but he didn't even have to bite back the tears anymore because they weren't coming; nothing was coming; nothing came anymore except when – _"I'm different,"_ a mantra of comfort – he made things happen to other people, things that they could not make happen to him, and he smiled as he watched his influence come over them, and Tom Riddle grew up a few years into a boy who would never again question how absolutely _normal_ hurting was, making others hurt, being hurt...

A line of dead rodents hanging in his wardrobe

_they sway and you can pick them like apples_

and he was beckoning Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop into the seaside cave, an innocent smile curling his lips, "I want to show you something," he said and the only reason he was smiling was because he should have known better and _look Amy, look Dennis, this is what happens when you kill a stray cat, smash its head on the rocks, go ahead,_

_want a taste?_

_Yes, of course you do, go ahead, look in my eyes and know it's okay_

Then a face Hermione knew very, very well, the face of Albus Dumbledore, and Tom surveyed the man with satisfaction, for he had always known he was different, always known it – otherwise how would he have gotten himself through the years? – and then he was whisked into a world where everything was right, where everything was perfect, and he was so quiet and meek and brilliant that everyone loved him instantly –

The strange part – the strange part, that when he did things right there was no reprehension, no punishment, and he could be as perfect as he'd always known he could be – and this stuff was _brilliant_ and it was _easy_ and it was so right to be holding that wand in his hand, such a powerful feeling, and finally it was _he_ who had the power –

A spot-on Levitation Charm, simple stuff, and an excited voice exclaimed, "Ten points to Slytherin!" and Riddle didn't even smile, just blinked in recognition, but the teacher reached over and touched his shoulder in congratulations and he _froze, _though no one noticed_ –_

The years flicked by quickly in Hogwarts – good memories, mostly, though there were some that Hermione was not altogether unsurprised to see, of boys cringing under the threatening tip of his wand, of boys screaming under that wandtip, of boys gathered in a circle in front of him as he asked for 'reports,' of mistrustful looks from Albus Dumbledore...

Then he was standing in a bathroom, saying – well,_ hissing_ – something, and there was a reaction from the tap in front of him, and it spun and glowed and then the memory changed –

Reading a stack of books, books that looked dangerous, and Dark, like something from the Restricted Section, but he hadn't gotten them there – he'd gotten them from the Room of Requirement, for nothing in the Hogwarts Library could satisfy him anymore, and there was one written by a very familiar name – _Salazar Slytherin –_

Tom Riddle grew up very quickly after fifth year, veritably shooting up, and his handsome features drew eyes from the female population, and he bedded several and dropped the exact same number, though Hermione closed her eyes quietly through those memories – and somewhere along the line Riddle had realized that it was not _normal_ for a teacher to do those things to a student, not _normal_ for a fully-grown man to do that to a boy of six, but he had never heard of it happening in the Wizarding World – just in that filthy world of the Muggles, that world of defilement and constant misery, that world he would _never_ hear a good word about.

Not ever.

There was a flash of green light, and Hermione's breath caught in her throat. A man fell down, dead, and Tom Riddle didn't care. This piece of trash had abandoned him to his childhood. This piece of Muggle trash had given him everything that was bad about the world – all Riddle had done was take that away, surely a _boon_ to be removed from a Muggle world, a Muggle life –

"What do you know about horcruxes?"

Slughorn's face creased in shock, sort of – in horror, sort of – but it was a quick recovery, and then a thirsty, burning goal, with the response, seared its way into Riddle's mind, as he realized it was possible. He was already more than Muggle, obviously, but he could be more than wizard – more than human_._ He was _destined. _He could be immortal_._

That word he had learned so long ago – _murder – _it would never be used to describe his dead body.

He would never die.

Then it was a stream of memories after he'd arrived here, all remembered in this perfect light, this beautiful light, a warmness finally streaming into his mind's eye –

Even as he gathered followers around him, even as he asked Salazar Slytherin to _teach me, please, I'm your heir_, but Slytherin wouldn't even give him a second glance and that _enraged_ him, but he couldn't hurt Salazar Slytherin himself, of course not, so he just withdrew, withdrew, and tortured and hurt and manipulated – and Hermione _froze_ as she saw him kissing Araminta Meliflua, but she couldn't think anything of it – she couldn't bring herself to think anything of anything, not after...

And then Hermione saw herself. Saw him planning for her, saw him plotting about her, saw him bewildered by her, saw him _wrecked_ by her, saw him stunned by her and ruined by her and fulfilled by her and standing by her and she _felt_ what he felt about her past, _felt_ the guilt that was wracking him – and then suddenly it was a stream of images of her own face, crystal-clear, idyllic, and in his mind she looked almost lovely, somehow, and words echoed, though they were not in Riddle's voice – they were in some other male voice, a familiar one – "she's just too good for you" – and Hermione swallowed and felt her eyes watering, and still the images of her flooded by.

Hermione pulled on her wand, and the spell broke. Riddle's eyes were closed, and dry, and he was breathing in and out in a careful, controlled rhythm.

There were no words. Not in her mind. Not on her tongue. Not forming anywhere.

Or actions.

Nothing could ever fix what she'd seen.

And when his eyes opened, she was unsurprised to see that look in them – that _plea._

She finally understood why that _I'm sorry_ had been so ruinous, so devastating. It all pressed itself into place.

Hermione's breaths were shallow. She met his eyes, trying to keep every shred of pity from her, for if he saw it he'd go insane.

His body seemed to have collapsed inward. He was no longer sitting up straight – his bare shoulders were slumped forwards, his back curled, his hands limp on his knees.

Hermione reached forwards and took his hands, squeezing as if to force life back into him. "Tom," she said, "Tom," but there were no other words to say. Not when _I'm sorry_ could hurt so much.

Then she leaned forward and wrapped him in a fierce hug, his body limp under her arms. She stroked his hair with one hand gently, swallowing her doubts, and she whispered, "You are _perfect._"

How could he have been anyone else? The mutation he'd undergone had already manifested itself when he was six years old; it had just been waiting to be realized. As soon as he'd gotten the idea that pain, that misery were normal, were okay... he'd not been in a right mind.

And then his body shivered under hers, and he tilted himself over to lie on the bed, stretched-out, miserable.

She kept her arms around him and kissed his nonresponsive lips, slowly, deeply, and she placed her hand on his shoulder and murmured, "It's gone."

He closed his eyes at that, and when he opened them again, that empty look had seeped away, and a glimmer of Tom had returned, his calm dark eyes meeting hers with gentleness. "Yes, I know," he murmured, as if they were the first words from an infant's lips, full of discovery and newness. Then she kissed him again, and he rolled onto his back and positioned her above him, and she felt as if she was having to give him the kiss of life, because he seemed to come alive beneath her once more, and suddenly his arms were uncomfortably tight around her.

It was a while before he brought up the subject of her death, and as he did, Hermione felt absolute panic flood her.

"So is it my turn now?" he asked softly.

Her eyes were as wide as he'd ever seen them, and she seemed like she was restraining something.

Hermione's mind raced. After that – after that – _no._ She couldn't let him see what he'd done, couldn't let him see that he'd personally destroyed the only person in his memory that was a bright, changing face, a normal vision – she couldn't _do that to him._

"I can't," she choked out, and his face slowly changed to dismay. Dismay and confusion.

"Why?" he whispered. "Hermione, _why?_"

"I'm so sorry." An uncomfortable nasal buzz built in her nose, and tears came to her eyes. "I can't." She was afraid he'd snap into anger at her apology, but she hadn't meant it like _that_, like sympathy, like pity.

She couldn't let him see it. Not ever. _Never._

Hermione took those days and sealed them away, sealed them away like she had never sealed anything before, feeling like she was her own Secret-Keeper, even as she stared at his face and her broken promise hung in the air.

She slid out of the bed, murmuring, "This was a mistake." What had she expected? She'd always thought there would be something terrible in his past, something awful – she clapped a hand over her mouth and _retched –_

Hearing his feet hit the floor on the other side of the bed, Hermione opened the door and walked out into the hall. Had it really been here that they had kissed for the first time, where she had yelled and screamed and sobbed her eyes out? She trailed hesitantly back into her own room, but before she could shut the door he was forcing his way in, and then his hands were grabbing her upper arms. "You promised," he hissed. "You _promised me – _you _lied._"

"I can't do it," she whispered. "You can try."

His wand pressed against her uncomfortably as he murmured the word, but her mind was as blank as it had ever been – Occlumency was her automatic response, and he could see some of her memories but they stopped right before she decided to make her way up to the Room –

Riddle let out an animal noise of rage and utter frustration. Hermione stared as his face filled with darkest anger. "How could you do this?" he growled, his eyes thunderous. He backed Hermione up against the wall. "You made me a _promise._"

She couldn't say anything. She couldn't find any words at all.

"Why?" he said fiercely.

Nothing.

"Why can't you _tell_ me?" he yelled.

Hermione felt her mouth drifting open, but there were only four words coming to her mind, and she found that they were the truth.

"Because I love you."

The silence burned and twisted. The silence lasted forever and forever and _forever._

Riddle looked like she'd punched him. "What?" he whispered.

"Because I love you."

Her eyes desperately sought purchase on his face as his anger drained away, leaving him unusually pale and almost frightened-looking. He backed up a little, Hermione still pressed against the wall as if it were supporting her, and then he grappled with the doorknob and fled. Hermione heard the outer door slam.

All she could do was collapse into bed, unable to remove the memory of those noises from her mind, _terrible_ noises, and unable to remove those four words from her mind, because discovering that she loved him wasn't easy, and remembering what he'd gone through was worse.

xXxXxXxXx

Riddle couldn't believe anything. His mind was a red swirl of absolute rage, a wall over which no thoughts dared venture, and everything was just _disbelief_ as he fixated on her – she'd _broken her promise._ She'd made a promise and she'd _broken_ it.

He wandered around the dungeons, and then he picked a classroom and _destroyed _it, rending desk after desk plank from plank with his wand in his hand. And when he was done, he fixed everything and did it again. Until he felt better.

Then, after a long hour, he sat down in the wreckage and drew in deep, angry, humiliated breaths. _Because I love you._

_Because I love you._

The words rang around his head, not allowing him respite, not allowing him a thing. She _loved_ him. She loved him. She didn't know how she felt about Ron, but she loved Tom Riddle. _How?_

But she'd broken her promise. Did that mean that her _I love you_ was a lie? Did it mean everything she'd ever said was, or could now be logically taken as, a lie?

Riddle felt like once that would have made sense to him, but it no longer did. Nothing did. All he could think of now was her terrified expression as he gripped her arms with strong hands, those four soft words, repeated easily, even as her eyes were scared, pained.

She knew everything about him and she _loved_ him.

How?

_How?_

Riddle gritted his teeth and slammed his fist into the stone wall, flicking his wand at it to fix the popped knuckle, and the pain screamed its way up his arm but somehow his mind completely ignored it.

How was that a reason? _How was that a reason_ not to tell him?

He shrank back against the wall, his back shrugging up against it like it was his only shelter, and the door opened.

Abraxas Malfoy walked in. "I, er, heard noise," he said quietly, looking around, taking in the broken furniture, the broken everything.

Riddle closed his eyes. He'd forgotten to cast a Silencing Charm. He said nothing.

"What's wrong?" asked Abraxas. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," choked out Riddle, but even Abraxas the Naïve could tell that the words were a complete lie.

"Don't give me that," Abraxas said fiercely, and he walked over to Riddle and stood him up. Riddle was shocked, and as he stared into the grey eyes of the other boy, he saw no animosity – just deep concern, and Abraxas' hands were tight on his shoulders, as if he were... as if he were his brother. No. As if he were his _father._

"I don't know what to do," said Riddle.

"So, what, are you just going to rip up Hogwarts and sit here moping? Merlin's beard, you're _Tom Riddle._ Pull yourself together." The words were harsh and fevered, but not angry. "What's the problem?"

Tom straightened up a bit, slight confusion appearing on his face as Abraxas crossed his big arms expectantly.

"I thought we weren't speaking," Tom said.

Abraxas' lips tightened. "Doesn't matter. Nothing matters but the present."

The words cut straight through to Riddle's core. _Nothing matters but the present._ Ron didn't matter. His memories didn't matter. Everything that was, that had been – it was all _gone_. Nothing mattered except things that lasted, things that were still there. Riddle looked at Abraxas, and something seemed to dawn on his dark features.

"Hermione said she loved me," Riddle said.

Abraxas' eyebrows soared sky high, and then he raised a big hand and clapped Riddle on the shoulder, nearly knocking him over. "That's something!" he crowed. "Jesus, what are you upset about?"

Now Riddle was veritably baffled. "But I thought you didn't -"

"I trust her. You, not so much, but I definitely trust Hermione," interrupted Abraxas, and he was relieved to see a familiar scowl make its way onto Riddle's face. The aimlessness had streamed away. "So, what's the problem?"

"I don't know what to say."

Abraxas' mouth quirked to the side. "Well, what do you think you should say?"

"I don't know!" repeated Riddle in a _you-idiot_ tone of voice. "Do you really think anyone's ever said that to me before?"

Abraxas didn't say anything for a second. "I'm guessing that was rhetorical," he mused, and Riddle's scowl deepened, making Abraxas' merriness increase further. Then his smile relaxed a little, and he blinked, his eyes gentle. "If you love her, tell her you do, and if you don't know, then just wait until you do know," he said patiently.

Riddle blinked. That seemed deceptively simple – but Abraxas was right, of course. The broken promise could wait. There was time. There was all the time in the world for that. But there was not all the time in the world for Hermione Granger's feelings.

All of a sudden, he nearly couldn't believe he'd literally _run away _from her when she'd told him.

"If I were to hazard a guess," Abraxas added, "I'd say you do."

Riddle just looked at him. Abraxas' simple words were putting things into place like he hadn't thought possible. Riddle had felt every emotion in the spectrum at some point just for _her_ – and what he felt for her overwhelmed everything else he'd ever experienced, including anger, including his fits of vicious rage.

Most of all – she'd told him she loved him.

_She loves me. _The thought suddenly filled Tom Riddle with what seemed to be a golden hum, right to the brim. His voice blurted in a most uncivilized manner, "Abraxas, you're the best," and he strode through the door.

Abraxas stared after Riddle. _That just happened._

He raised his eyebrows, bewildered, and waved his wand in a wide sweep, casting _Reparo_ on everything in sight. He left the classroom as it repaired itself, as if Tom Riddle had never been inside.

xXxXxXxXx

It had been nearly an hour and a half, and Hermione Granger lay in her bed, having a good cry.

_What did I expect?_

She'd even told herself this, just yesterday, told herself that she'd have to be prepared, if or when she told him, for something exactly like this! What the hell was her problem? She was awful, apparently, at taking her own advice.

She angrily buried her head under her pillow.

Hermione couldn't think of a worse time for her to have told him – really? Right after he'd started yelling at her? Right after she'd broken a promise? Right after she'd seen his harrowing past in its traumatic entirety? What a terrible path to opt along! What was she, stupid? She yelled into her pillow, her throat crying in protest, but she ignored it. Enough stupidity had come out of her throat that day for her to pay it any heed at all.

How far had she pushed him away? Hermione swallowed and tried to ignore the thought, but it was too overwhelming to shove to the side. After what she'd done to him, springing that _I-love-you_ after he had been so shocked when she'd said she _might possibly_ be starting to feel something for him...

Hermione jumped in shock as a hand laid itself between her shoulder-blades. She didn't remove her head from the pillow. No one else could have gotten in but him, and she _really_ didn't want him to see her face just then. "Hello," she mumbled, her voice directed down into her mattress and muffled by her feather pillow.

His strong hands slowly started rubbing her back, relaxing her tense muscles. "Sorry to barge in," he murmured, "but you were screaming, so you didn't hear me knocking."

Hermione's face turned bright red – after all, there's nothing worse than being caught caring. "Mmf," she said into her mattress.

His hands left for a second, and everything darkened as Riddle closed the bedcurtains. Then they returned, slowly pressing down at the base of her neck, sweeping to the left and downwards, pressing and massaging away all the tension. His hands slowly worked their way downwards, stopping at the base of her back.

His voice was low and smooth. "You know, this would be easier if you weren't wearing anything."

She didn't think her face could get any redder. Why was he back? And why wasn't he furious?

Then his warm hands slid up the back of her sweater, and she found it hard to wonder much of anything.

He continued, "I hope you weren't crying long. Making girls cry is hardly an honorable occupation."

"Like you're interested in honorable occupations," her squashed voice said. She felt him pause and she sat up, flicking her wand at her hair and her face. The miserable redness in her nose didn't subside, but her hair combed itself out a bit and the wetness all over her face vanished.

His hands trailed out from under her sweater. Hermione was finding it difficult to look him in the eye. "I'm sorry for going insane," she said quietly. "I just – I never could have imagined."

He gave a hollow chuckle. "I would have been quite worried if you _had_ imagined it," he replied. "Look, Hermione – I don't want to make you say anything that you don't -"

"No, I shouldn't have gone back on a promise like that," Hermione interrupted. "That was wrong."

There was a pause. He ran a hand through his hair. "But you're still not going to show me, are you?"

"I still can't," whispered Hermione, studying his face, which was downturned, examining his interlocked fingers. Then he looked up at her, his eyes calm, and he said,

"That's okay."

"It's really not."

He nodded. "Yes, it is."

"Why?" she asked in a small voice, but she somehow knew what he was going to say before she even asked, and her heart jumped into a sprint when he said the four words, the expression on his handsome face torn beyond imagining. Humiliation, worry, anticipation, disbelief – none of which seemed to fit the words, but all of which were so utterly _him_:

"Be – because I love you."

The kiss was long, and Hermione felt her head spinning until they broke for air. "I love you," he repeated, quieter, and kissed her softly. "I love you." And he leaned his forehead against hers, their noses touching, and he shut his eyes, and Hermione thought her heart might just quit out, might just stop, might just fall dead from her chest right there.

Tom Riddle's mind had never been quieter. There was not even a hint at a thought at the edges. There was not even any emotion, besides the one that had settled into him a while ago and taken deep root. Even his curiosity had receded. He thought nothing. He felt nothing. He _was_ nothing except the hands that held hers. He was nothingexcept the nose that lightly touched hers. He was nothing except the heart that was, at last, hers.

xXxXxXxXx

Yet everything has its bane, and as three days passed, the joyous delirium that had seemed to accompany his confession seeped back into relative normalcy. He didn't doubt that he still loved her, but curiosity had fought its way back to the top, and Tom Riddle didn't like having to fight anything. Especially not a question inside him. Especially when he'd had an answer promised him.

This could not drop. He could not quit until he knew. And now that he knew she loved him – now that he knew, once and for all, that she was his – he figured he had some leeway. Especially since he loved her in return, and she knew that fact. She must have known it. After all, he now knew it like the back of his hand.

They never broached the subject of the promise, but it hung there, a single fault line on the surface of an earthquake, the single foam finger on the top of a tsunami. It was waiting for Tom Riddle to fall bait to its clutches, and fall he did.

After all, he never could resist a challenge, could he? No, Tom Riddle never backed down from an outright challenge. And this was more than outright. This was deep. This was personal. He had to know – but how could he get past her Occlumency? An Occlumens as achieved as she subconsciously prepared for resistance before going to sleep. But now that he had something that was so important for any good plan – _trust_ – he was nervous about losing it. She loved him, but there was only so much one could take in the issue of _trust_ before breaking down. And if she broke down, then he would have no chance at all.

Riddle started subconsciously tracking the times when he might be able to take her by surprise, but they were few and far between, especially since they spent so much time together. The only place she ever really went these days was the library, sometimes. Although there was rumor of a game coming up, planned by the event committee – and those always seemed to prove useful.

Riddle didn't want to hurt her. The idea was repulsive, wrong. But she'd sealed up that last bit of her life so damn _well_ – there hadn't been a single slip in her defense. She would have to be completely surprised for him to be able to get a shot at it, utterly off her guard. It would have to be the very, very last thing on her mind, and Riddle didn't like to think it, but perhaps the only way to do that would be to hurt her.

But she'd promised him. She'd made him a promise, so that meant it was okay, right?

He wondered if that would be one of those things that Hermione looked shocked at, that he was so completely off the mark as to what was okay. It seemed like that sort of natured... thing. But he couldn't stand it, couldn't stand looking at her and having to ask himself about her, looking at her and feeling like she was denying him the one thing he asked. It wasn't fair to her that he would occupy his thoughts with such things. It would be far better just to get it over with.

So Riddle started planning it. One shock. One blow. Then it would be over with. After all – she'd never said, "I don't _want_ to tell you." She'd said, "I can't." He would just help her be able to divulge that information, help her be able to fulfill that promise.

No matter what it took.

* * *

**x**

**x**

**x**

**Why, yes, you're right. I hate it when everything is happy. That's why I CRUSH DREAMS MUAHHAHA.**

**By the way, someone suggested I change this to an angst fic. Interesting proposition. Unfortunately, I just love the connotation of 'drama'. Picturing TFL as a Spanish soap opera is just too much fun to change it from 'drama' to 'angst'.**

**Wizard Angst. You know you want to re-watch it, now that I've brought it up.**

**Speechwriter.**


	25. Chapter 25

**Thank you so much for all your reviews! **

**Ishkie, Ember Nickel, bingbing196, novellover, A. Ymous, Ted, Violet-eyed-Tiger4, Alrauna, Cirkeline, Bloombright, ber1719, VeniVidiVici92, azneejit, Last Laugh, secret, Agent Twinkle Toes, CorpseBox, NougatEvolution, physics chick, Caitlynism, cocoartist, november21, chrissytingting, Lil Mizz SunShyne X x, happytide, anonymousP, sweet-tang-honney, Lolita, 13Nyx13, Anna on the Horizon, cooopercrisp, psalmofsummer, looksponge, XxXxLOVExXxX, Wisawaffle, bwahahaha XD, slayerb8, watercolour dreams, sejohnson, Ris, The-Konoha-Shadow, MrsMargeryLovett, AnimeMangaFreak, Magtaria, Annevader, Galavantian, jzbandme, Adrenaline Junkie in da House, MissImpossible, blue-rox-my-sox, OfCakeAndIceCream, Olivia, Kayrose, Proudly Weird, Pureblood Angel, Bonni Lass, and Jacxx.**

**I do want to address one specific question from azneejit for the benefit of all. I won't be writing sex scenes. I don't really trust myself with them. I've read a couple before, but I feel as if my writing one would result in dipping into a dreary bunch of clichés. So my apologies if you wanted to read one XD I assure you, reading a sex scene written by a 16-year-old girl who's never kissed a guy? You're not missing out on much.**

**Love,**

**Speechwriter.**

* * *

Hermione flicked her wand, and the fork soared over to Revelend. He changed it into a small rubber duck, which was a strange choice for Revelend, and sent it flying to Riddle, who transformed it into a live mouse and shot it back at Hermione. She jabbed her wand at it. The newly-formed eggcup flew over to Abraxas, and he fired a spell at it, but it missed, and the eggcup hit the ground, shattering.

"I win!" said Hermione. "Oh, victory is sweet."

"Great," mumbled Herpo. "Um, can I have my fork back now?"

Hermione laughed and handed him hers. "Sorry."

Wizard taps was excellent fun, Hermione decided. She was in high spirits that day – Tom was holding her hand, and Hermione didn't feel like anyone_ cared_. She felt like she had been freed from the gossip cycle. None of the Gryffindors seemed to care at all what she did anymore, which was fantastic, despite the pangs in her chest she got whenever she caught Miranda or Godric's eyes in the Great Hall, or in the hallways.

Albus, though... Hermione didn't know about Albus. He wasn't the same Dumbledore she'd known. She knew that Dumbledore had had sort of a wild phase – and 1918 might have been right around the time that phase was ending. This Dumbledore certainly seemed like he was concealing something beneath his kind exterior, like he was still having trouble with his past – while the Albus Hermione had known had definitely managed to move on, leave it behind him. Weirdly enough, this was so much more evident from a distance, so much more evident when Hermione saw Albus striding around, giving glances to either side every so often, rather than the cool, calm sweep of earth's Dumbledore. And if this were a different Dumbledore, perhaps she was better off away from him, better off where she didn't have to risk changing her memory of the kind Dumbledore of her past.

After all, it was the same sort of thing with Tom. He was not the same, not at all. The Voldemort of earth would never even have had a chance if someone tried to get close to him. Tom, somehow, had let that happen.

He didn't even seem to be dwelling much on her broken promise, thank God. Maybe someday she could tell him, though it would hurt.

She was confident in her ability to keep secrets, though, confident that she had sufficiently hidden those days where he could not get at them, even if he cast Legilimens on her from around the corner or when he was kissing her.

Not that it was hard to make her mind go blank when he was kissing her.

"Off to Quidditch," sighed Abraxas. Hermione wasn't sure exactly what had turned him around, but the day after Riddle had told her he loved her Abraxas was sitting at breakfast, as cheery as he had ever been, like he had bipolar disorder or something. Whatever it had been, Hermione was glad. She needed someone who was as irritatingly enthusiastic as Abraxas to balance out characters like Herpo and Revelend.

"Have a good practice," Hermione told Abraxas. He grinned and clapped Herpo on the back, sending him pitching forward.

There was no end to laughs at Herpo's expense. Hermione marveled at how good-natured he seemed to be, despite his scowls and sighs and general melodrama. With all the negative attention he got from his friends, however joking, Hermione felt like she would have tired of it – but he always just seemed to scowl and move on, and Hermione found herself joining in the laughter, because Revelend had told her once that scowling was Herpo's way of laughing.

"So, what are you doing today, Revelend?" she asked.

He shrugged. "I was thinking I might go and blow up some stuff in the Room of Requirement."

Hermione chuckled. "Well, have fun." He nodded stiffly and left the Great Hall.

Tom sighed. "The day I see Revelend emote, the world may end."

"Maybe you should lend him some of your repressed anger," teased Hermione.

His eyes narrowed. "I enjoy my repressed anger exactly where it is, Ms. Granger."

They made their way up the Grand Staircase and to Hermione's room. Then she reached under her pillow and pulled something out, a barely-suppressed grin on her face. "I got you something."

He raised an eyebrow. "Oh, really?"

"Consider it a very late Christmas present. Or birthday present."

Riddle scrutinized the gift. She had wrapped it and everything – what a bizarre amount of effort for something completely unnecessary.

He removed the brown paper, and his lips quivered a little in a restrained laugh. "I hope you know I may never actually read this," he said, dangling the works of Dante between two fingers.

"Don't be like that. It's good, I promise. Just pretend Dante was some obscure wizard from ancient Peru or something."

Riddle gave a rare chuckle and opened the volume, which had THE DIVINE COMEDY emblazoned in obnoxiously large letters on the navy blue cover. The first page read, THE INFERNO. "So this is..."

Hermione pointed at the page. "This is the first of three books in the volume. The first describes the nine circles of Hell, the second describes Purgatory, and the last describes Heaven."

"Lovely," Riddle sighed. "I may flip through the 'Hell' section, if I feel like some bland reading..."

Hermione elbowed him. "This is far more quality literature than that stuff you read about making blood sacrifices."

"Au contraire," said Riddle smoothly. "The blood sacrifice book was actually based on fact. Now, the one about inhalation of toxic fumes and their effect on corpses might have been a bit speculative -"

Hermione's lip curled in mild disgust. "Honestly, Tom, I don't understand how you enjoy reading that."

"I don't understand how you don't. For one who preaches the wonders of open-mindedness, Hermione..."

She laughed. "As if open-mindedness really entails the approval of some creepy old Scottish wizard who went digging around through people's graves after sniffing glue."

Riddle closed his new book and placed it into the pocket of his robes. "Well, that certainly sounds like you've done some research on the topic," he said with a smirk. "Don't elbow me -"

She elbowed him. "All right. The library calls. I challenge you to find a book about something happy for a change."

"Boring," he mumbled as they walked down the hallway. "I'd rather read the Muggle Hell book."

"It's called The Inferno," Hermione said hotly, "not _the Muggle Hell book._"

Riddle shrugged. "Where did you even find it?"

"Room of Requirement. Handy for books you can't find in the library, I've found, although you can't really get them content-specific, which is irritating."

"Yes, the Room can only do so much," agreed Riddle. "Have you ever tried stretching it to its limits? It's surprisingly capable – I found an elephant in there once."

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "I've never really had the time."

"Let me guess. Too busy... _studying_?"

The way he said it was mocking, and Hermione shot him a dark look. "Maybe so," she sniffed.

He put an arm around her. "You know I find your study habits endearing."

They took a seat on the sofa. Melia had cast a fresh snowfall to celebrate the first day of February, so the castle's inhabitants had flocked outside, leaving the library deserted.

Riddle stretched out his legs, taking The Divine Comedy from his pocket. "Fine, I'll poke through this thing."

Hermione kissed him on the cheek. "Wonderful. I'm off to find some light reading." She walked into the many shelves of the library, leaving Riddle opening the book to the first page with ultimate distaste on his face.

Yet as Riddle read through it at his usual quick pace, he found himself not only interested by the book, but moderately disturbed by it. The godless, the lustful, the murderers, the proud – pretty much anything that this author deemed mildly 'wrong' was repaid a hundredfold within the pages of this book. He even made specific references to certain Muggles that Riddle had, mostly, never heard of.

It irked Riddle to see exactly how many of these categories he managed to slide into. In fact, it was so irritating that he snapped the book shut when he reached the eighth circle, not wanting to read further. He stared straight ahead, his dark eyes narrowed. Apparently everything was a so-called sin in the ancient Muggle world.

So he put his mind from the book, put his mind from thoughts of what he'd done that may or may not have been 'wrong', and his thoughts fixed again on Hermione.

She seemed ridiculously cheerful these days, as if there were a sun hidden inside her that shone out through her eyes and her smile, lending her hidden warmth. It almost made Riddle happy. He wondered, though, if she'd forgotten what she needed to do – get back to earth.

The thought of her leaving made Tom's stomach boil. He wanted to keep her there, keep her for himself. But some part of him knew that she felt obliged to return, that it pulled at her sense of righteousness. And Hermione Granger's sense of justice was not to be tried.

Tom attempted to wipe the dark look from his face as Hermione returned with a teetering stack of books and let them thud onto the table in front of them. Her eyes found his, and she said immediately, "What's wrong?"

He snatched the nearest available excuse. "The Muggle Hell book is annoying me immensely."

"Why is _The Inferno_ irritating you?"

"Because, according to your precious _Dante_, I would be in practically all of these damn circles."

Hermione's eyebrows rose slightly. "Ah," she said, a little surprised that he actually cared. "Well, it's just his hypothesis," she continued. "Not like any of this is based in fact or anything. I just find it interesting to analyze." She sat down next to him, a bit concerned about the foul humor that seemed to have come over him. He turned, slinging his legs over the sofa arm, and laid his head in her lap.

"Muggles," he mumbled.

"I know," Hermione sighed. It was no wonder he hated Muggles so much, when the face he associated them with – Peterson's face – had such horrific memories attached. Her mind flicked back to Drew Caeziten's words – _The darkest of sin is the most mortal – _and then Hermione wondered what had happened to Peterson. That quote in the newspaper – _I'm not sorry_ – was deeply, deeply disturbing. More disturbing was the idea that Tom might have drawn inspiration from that quote, might have never seen fit to apologize for anything because the man who had violated him, one who had been supposed to be trustworthy, had refused to apologize.

Hermione lightly traced Riddle's face with her index finger. The sunlight streaming in from the high windows illuminated his features with unnatural golden light, illuminated her small hand as it smoothed out the worry from his brow, illuminated every soft, fine strand of his dark hair. It was so difficult to recall the memories that lived behind that face, at least without a thudding reaction from her heart. No wonder he had such an unshakable poker face; he had been perfecting it since the age of six. It was small wonder he ever managed to relax that expression. But now he looked peaceful, calm, and Hermione wondered what he was thinking about.

Riddle felt her small hands trail over his face with immense satisfaction. Those hands were nowhere but on him, her legs were nowhere but under him, her face was nowhere but mere feet away, his to kiss if he wished. He let out a small sigh, and willed back the curiosity that inevitably streamed in when he was feeling at peace, but it couldn't be contained, as usual.

It had been a while since she'd had that haunted expression, that lost, wounded expression of remembrance, and he didn't miss it, because it meant she was in pain. But he wondered how she'd managed to forget everything, managed to push it beneath the surface of her mind. It was nearly as well as he'd managed to contain his own memories.

Riddle was still pulling together ideas to discover her death, but he was doing so halfheartedly, because the idea of hurting her was growing ever more unappealing. But one specific idea stuck in his mind, an idea that would surely stun her so completely that she'd be unable to resist a Legilimens. It wouldn't even take long – it couldn't hurt her for that long, if it was relatively quick, right?

He opened his eyes. Hermione was looking up at the windows, the yellowed light glowing on her face. Riddle swallowed and sat up slowly, slight dizziness striking him, and he wondered for the millionth time what it had been like to die, to be ripped soul from body – had it hurt? Had she been dueling someone? Which of his miserable followers had it been? Or had it been a mistake?

Hermione reached for the book on top of the stack. The Wizarding Worlds: Magical Cultures Around the Globe. She flipped it open and started to read, smiling slightly as her eyes trailed down the page.

Riddle sat up slowly. "Hermione," he said quietly, "you need to get back to earth."

And he knew, as he said the words, that they were true, no matter how much he may have wished for them to be false. And through the pain in her expression he could see that she knew it too. "I know," she whispered. "I just can't bring myself to _want_ to."

"I don't want you to either," he said.

"Haven't you said Tom Riddle always get what he wants?"

He moved forward and pressed his lips briefly to hers, then put a pale hand to her face as he leaned back. "Not always," he whispered, "but that's a well-kept secret."

Hermione kissed him again, letting her book fall face-down into her lap as she lifted her hands to him.

"What if you move on?" Tom murmured. "You'll have missed your chance."

"That won't be for a while yet," sighed Hermione, pulling back. "I've heard the fastest anyone's ever moved is three years."

"Three years?" Tom said, his voice strained. "Hermione, that means you'll only have lived for twenty-one years. That's _nothing_. You should be trying to get back to earth, attempting to live out a long existence -"

"I told you," Hermione whispered fiercely, "I'm not _leaving_ you here."

_It would be safer if you did,_ Riddle thought to himself. Apparently, she _still _didn't fully realize what the curiosity of Tom Riddle could bring down upon someone. When he wanted to know something, he found it out, plain and simple, no matter what might happen along the way. If the plan he was mentally arranging now didn't work, he didn't know how long he'd be able to go without knowing. The four days since the broken promise already felt like _years_, years that it had been withheld, years that he had been planning, and then trying not to, but falling back into fantasies of plots –

And suddenly the idea of her trying to get back to earth was very unappealing indeed, for a very different reason than before. Not ever knowing the answer? Not _ever_? That could not happen. He wouldn't allow that to happen.

Riddle breathed out slowly as she placed her head on his shoulder. He should have known better than to think he might be able to have a normal relationship with someone. Not while this secret was alive – or relatively so – and well-kept.

xXxXxXxXx

Hermione looked over at the Gryffindor table. Someone was dinging a glass, a tall blond boy Hermione didn't know.

With his words, everything got very different, very fast.

"We have a new arrival," he said.

Hermione's heart seemed to slow down in her chest. _Oh God please not Harry not Ron not Neville not Fred not George not Ginny not_

"Minerva McGonagall."

Hermione stared. A sort of stricken sob emerged from her chest, and she clapped a hand over her mouth, but suddenly tears were spilling from her closed eyes, and there were several pairs of eyes on her. Hermione bit her tongue, desperately trying to restrain it. _No, no, no, no, not Professor McGonagall not her not her NOT HER_

A tall, sharp-eyed girl stood at the Gryffindor table and lifted a hand in a short greeting, then sat back down. Hermione's eyes were glued to the girl's face. Though young, she had the same face shape, the same serious expression – she was the same – she was _here_...

Hermione frantically reassured herself, looking back down at her plate, though she suddenly didn't feel hungry at all. This didn't mean McGonagall was necessarily dead, right? She could have done something that would have sent her here, something else – like Dumbledore – and with Minerva McGonagall's magical prowess, that wasn't unlikely. No, surely – _surely – _out of everyone, Professor McGonagall would be the one to survive, the one to _live_.

Riddle turned an eye on her. "Should we leave?"

Hermione shook her head and wiped her eyes, taking in a deep breath, still attempting to reassure herself. "No," she choked out. "I'm fine."

The chatter of the Great Hall resumed. Hermione looked over at the doors to see that Professor McGonagall was leaving, and Hermione nearly tripped and fell in a hurry to leave as well.

A little surprised, Riddle followed her. He could have sworn there had been a McGonagall a year or two above him back when he'd been at Hogwarts – was this the same girl? She'd been Head Girl – very abrupt, too, wouldn't stand for any messing about in the hallways or anything –

Hermione saw Professor McGonagall ahead, about halfway up the Grand Staircase. "Hello?" she called, her voice strangled, her throat seeming to have trouble letting anything out.

Professor McGonagall turned, and as her eyes fixed on Hermione, her mouth drifted open, her eyes widening. She stopped in the middle of the stairs. "Hermione Granger?"

Hermione turned. Tom was right behind her, but he couldn't be here for this. "Um," she said quietly, "could I see you later? This is... I just..."

He nodded and said, "No need to explain," turned, and walked back to the Great Hall, casting a glance over his shoulder at the McGonagall girl, but she wasn't looking at him – she was looking at Hermione. Staring, actually.

Hermione sprinted up the stairs and wrapped McGonagall in a fierce, tight hug, and suddenly she was crying again. "Professor," she sobbed, "please don't tell me you're – please don't tell me you're -"

McGonagall's thin eyebrows rose, and she took a step back, appraising Hermione. "Pull yourself together, Granger," she said.

Hermione sniffled and bit her lip, trying to restrain herself. "You're not dead, are you?"

It seemed like an eternity to Hermione before McGonagall answered. "No," she said. "No, I am not. Is that a customary inquiry for this castle?"

Hermione felt herself go limp with utter relief. She actually staggered down to a lower step, lifting a hand to her face, wiping her tears, and then a huge smile erupted on her face. "Oh, thank Merlin – thank God you're -"

Then McGonagall's eyebrows met in a sudden frown, and her eyes flashed with alarm. "Ms. Granger, are _you_...? Surely, you're – you're not..." She trailed off, unable to finish.

Hermione nodded slowly. "Yes. I've died," she said quietly.

McGonagall swallowed, a strange look on her face. Hermione realized her Transfiguration professor was upset. She always had been one of McGonagall's best students, after all – McGonagall had been so determined that Hermione would do well, at their Career meeting. To have all that ripped away…

"Tell me what's been happening," Hermione said. "Tell me what's going on at Hogwarts."

McGonagall swallowed. "Well, You-Kn – _Voldemort_ – has sworn not to abandon Hogwarts until Harry Potter has been killed."

"So he's still alive?" breathed Hermione. "There are people who are okay? Are Harry and Ron okay? Who –"

"I don't know," sighed McGonagall, putting a hand to her forehead. "All I know is that Neville Longbottom and George Weasley are both alive and well – we three had been hiding in the walls of the Owlery, and we heard a noise, and I closed my eyes, and suddenly I was here."

"A loud noise?" Hermione asked breathlessly. George was alive. Neville was _alive._ That damn Boggart hadn't gotten the best of her – "What type of noise?"

"Like a … an explosion. But we weren't within range."

Hermione nodded slowly. McGonagall must have done some magic on Hogwarts that had been blown up, and then she'd been sent here – _three people I know are alive and well._ Hermione felt her eyes flooding with tears again, but she blinked them back. Three people shouldn't have been much of a relief, but now she knew there were some people who were all right – at least some – Merlin... the Dark Lord hadn't managed to catch everyone even with _so much time_ to search. Hermione felt a strange triumph building inside her. "Is it still impossible to get out?" she asked.

McGonagall nodded. "The shields are still up all around the castle. Anti-Apparition wards, Impenetrables, Fortinbras' Membranes, everything he put up back when it first began – it's all still there. No matter how deep we dug, they didn't end." Hermione closed her eyes. They were still trapped inside, unable to leave. Then, "What happened to you?" whispered McGonagall, her eyes suddenly glimmering with worry again. "Why are you here, Ms. Granger?"

"I hid in the Room of Requirement. But he found me."

McGonagall's hand flew to her mouth.

"Three days, but I didn't tell him anything," Hermione murmured, trying to keep It as concise as possible, so she wouldn't remember it, so it wouldn't surface – "and then... and then the end."

McGonagall leaned against the stair's railing. "Granger, you are a true Gryffindor," she said softly, and Hermione thought her heart would burst from the praise – but there was no _time _for that, there was no time for her own memories; Minerva McGonagall was alive and well and _standing right there –_

"Are the Boggarts dead?" Hermione asked quickly.

"Yes. The Death Eaters grew tired of them."

Hermione sighed in relief. That had been half of the nightmare, for her – now the people who were there, the people who remained, could at least know what was real. "And... you haven't seen or heard anything about anyone else?"

"I was in a classroom, and I heard some talk about having some sort of 'she' in custody for questioning," said McGonagall. "Gracious, it's hard to believe I'm no longer _there._"

"You get used to it," Hermione replied quietly. "Have you met Godric Gryffindor?"

McGonagall nodded. "Quite a surprise," she said, with a rare tight-lipped smile. "One wouldn't think he would be such a buffoon."

Hermione chuckled, fondness spreading through her. That was the word, indeed... She shook her head. "How long has it been since the Death Eaters got in?" she asked, just to make sure it had been a little over ten months, as it should have been.

"Nearly seven months," McGonagall replied. Hermione frowned. That didn't work, with her calculations.

"Are you... are you sure?" Hermione asked. She'd used hers and R.J.'s exact dates of arrival; how could... but then again, time was only ever fluid, perhaps inconsistent – so there was _no way_ to figure out the time back on earth. Hermione swallowed, panic filling her. That meant that time could be _rushing_ by right now after a slow patch and she would never know, meant that one second could be a month and –

"Yes, I'm sure. I feel as if I've aged twenty years in those months," said McGonagall. "It's awful, Granger. We've called them the Days of Terror, though who knows if they'll ever end -"

"Tell me _everything,_" Hermione said fiercely. "Tell me everything that's happened to you, everything you've seen. I have to know."

They walked up to an empty classroom, sat down, and McGonagall told her exactly that.

xXxXxXxXx

Riddle sat in front of the fire, feeling alone. This McGonagall girl – so Hermione had known her, back on earth? Was McGonagall at that dark Hogwarts? Was she dead? Hermione had apparently thought so, given her reaction... who was she to Hermione? A friend? A mentor? A friend's parent?

He closed his eyes. _Not more questions._ More questions were exactly what he didn't need right now, not with that single throbbing question sitting right in the middle of his chest.

Could McGonagall know who had killed Hermione? How she'd died?

But no – the very last bit before Hermione had blocked him off, the very last thing he'd seen was her sprinting down a hallway and into a door, _alone_. McGonagall couldn't have been involved in that.

What if Hermione had told her?

No, that was stupid – if Hermione could tell McGonagall, then she could definitely tell him... right? She trusted him enough to tell him something she'd tell someone else, surely. No, McGonagall couldn't know – although perhaps there was a way he could make sure, because if there was even the slightest chance...

Riddle swallowed.

McGonagall would also know him as Voldemort. When she met him, she too would have that mistrustful, horrified look Hermione had had for so long. The look that read, _This is him – this is your worst nightmare, in the flesh,_ and so Riddle might not be able to get her alone.

Hermione would _kill_ him if he did anything to McGonagall, did anything to someone from her life. If he were to do something to her and Hermione were to find out … no, that would not be acceptable.

A thought hissed across Riddle's mind – what if he were to curse McGonagall where Hermione could see? Would that be enough of a shock to surprise Hermione out of Occlumency?

No. Hermione was used to the idea of him hurting others, of him torturing others. Especially after she'd gone through his memories, now, and seen him hurting so many people, at Hogwarts, and here, too...

Riddle looked up. The door opened, and Hermione walked in, looking utterly spent. He stood. "Are you all right?"

Hermione sat on the sofa. "I suppose."

"How are things on earth?" Riddle said.

She shook her head. "As bad as ever." After having just been told for two hours about the last seven months of McGonagall's life, she now fully remembered how horrific every single day had been, how even the tiny things, like finding a place to _sleep_, had been the worst – although thank God for magic, for being able to summon food from the Kitchens... And every miniscule detail spoke of ominous days, like the fact that all the portraits had beenempty, that all the House-elves had managed to find some way to leave the castle, or at least hide themselves very well, that behind every door there was just as much chance, it seemed, that there would be a Death Eater as not, even though there could only have been thirty of them, maybe, spread out all over the castle... thirty agents of misery and murder...

"Your friend... McGonagall, she's not dead, is she?"

Hermione gave a tired smile. "No. No, she isn't, thank God. She was my Transfiguration teacher."

"Have you learned anything new?" He sat down beside her and kissed her forehead lightly. "What did she tell you?"

But he saw something in her eyes he hadn't seen in so very long – distrust.

Of course, after speaking for hours about what his earthly counterpart was doing to everyone she knew – of course she'd feel disinclined to tell him much of anything.

The distrust faded, though, into a sort of resignation, and she leaned her head on his chest. "I know that a couple of my friends are alive. I'd thought one of them was dead, but he's not."

"That's good," Riddle murmured.

Hermione smiled sadly. Yes. But there was so much that McGonagall hadn't been able to tell her, so many people she still didn't have any idea about... _Harry. Ron. Luna. Ginny. Fred. Hagrid. Bill. Ms. Weasley. Mr. Weasley. All the teachers. The entire Order..._

Hermione curled up miserably against Tom. His strong arms were around her, but for once, she didn't feel safe. She felt what everyone back on earth was feeling. Alone. Terrified. Like the end was very, very near.

"Nagini is dead," whispered Hermione.

Riddle frowned. Who was Nagini? The name sounded just a bit familiar, like she'd told him it before, like he'd heard it in her memories... "Who?"

"Your last horcrux," her voice said into his chest, and he froze, fighting back nauseating panic.

He'd known this would happen. It couldn't have lasted for much longer, of course, if so many people knew about its existence, if it were a _living thing_... Riddle's heart thudded painfully hard, and he found that his mouth was dry. He controlled himself. As long as he was still alive, back on earth, there was a chance he could fix his soul before the rest of him came to join him in this median world – there was a _chance_ he could feel remorse, somehow, cure himself of this self-inflicted disease and not be stuck here for eternity.

He realized he was gripping Hermione's arm too hard, and he relaxed his hold a little. "I see," he said. That was all he could manage. _I see._ He saw. He saw what he had to do... but he just couldn't _do_ it.

Hermione lay down on the sofa, bringing him down with her. They were so close that he could hardly tell where his body ended and where hers began, so close that he could practically close his eyes and pretend she would never move on, never leave him stuck behind with a broken heart and a broken soul.

And in that moment he knew he was going to do it. He knew he was going to hurt her. But it was the only way he could know, and if she was going to leave him – he subconsciously tightened his arms around her – if she was going to leave him... then she would leave him with the knowledge he needed.

xXxXxXxXx

Hermione felt like something had changed, but she didn't know what it was. Whatever it was, it was evident in his kisses, in his eyes, in his hold. Like every single touch was going to be the last. Like after every kiss they would be torn apart. Hermione had ceased to tell him that they had all the time in the world, because he wouldn't listen, and because she couldn't help worrying about time herself.

Not necessarily the time she had with him – just time. Time that was slipping away from her on earth. Time that was running out for all her friends. Time that was unreliable and immeasurable...

Hermione wondered about Tom. Was it that he was genuinely normalizing, or that he was getting better at hiding his abnormalities? He said things that were normal, did things that were normal. He and Abraxas seemed to have completely made up, and Abraxas, weirdly, didn't seem scared of Riddle anymore. Hermione felt like that should have been a pressure point for Riddle, but he didn't seem to mind that Abraxas wasn't scared of him. Was it because everyone else in the castle was scared, because they knew about the Cruciatus Curse? Or was it that Riddle actually had a weird sort of _friendship_ building with Abraxas? Hermione didn't know, but it was gladdening to see Tom associate with Abraxas like he was just any other boy.

McGonagall heard about her and Riddle being together two days after she arrived. Hermione did not begrudge the looks of utter shock, of utter alarm, of rage. After all, Hermione didn't know what she would have said if someone had told her, upon her arrival, that she would someday find herself in love with Tom Riddle. She probably would have laughed at the messenger, or hexed him severely. But McGonagall never outright asked Hermione about it. She stuck by Albus, and Hermione felt a weird sort of joy swelling inside her whenever she saw Minerva and Albus walking together, just like old times, speaking about something just like they used to do back when the world was normal.

Hermione did speak with McGonagall about what to tell the people in this Hogwarts, though. Minerva agreed – she, like Hermione, wasn't inclined to tell them a thing about the present state of the world. Not about Voldemort, not about the dark Hogwarts... not about anything. When the word 'Voldemort' left her lips, she gave Hermione a very familiar piercing stare, and Hermione's only response was, "He's changed."

And her Transfiguration professor sighed and turned away, but made no objection.


	26. Chapter 26

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Hermione had felt like it was different.

That kiss – that feverish, hungry kiss – had been different from any other. And the desire she'd felt growing in her had been different from any other desire she'd ever felt.

It was for that reason that Hermione Granger woke up tired on a Tuesday morning, in a bed that was not her own, her naked body entwined with his.

She couldn't believe it had happened. She couldn't believe that she'd given everything of herself to him, given it so willingly and completely. But then, in a way, it was hard to believe she had waited so long. When she thought about his seeming desperation of the last couple days, she found it strange that he had waited until_ she_ was ready for it to happen, without pushing her into it, without even any verbal hint that he might want something more than what she was giving him.

But with those words – "I'm ready" – he'd known _exactly_ what she was talking about, without conversation, and he'd quietly asked her if she was sure, and she'd nodded, and just like that – just like that, he was hers, and she his, in a completely new way.

Hermione swallowed. She hadn't anticipated that it would _hurt_ afterwards. Especially not when... well, not when it had felt so amazing during. It hadn't been gentle, and it hadn't been easy, but _Merlin_, it had been … something else. Her face blushed bright red at the very thought, and she moved her head so that it was tucked under his chin, and let her arm dangle over his waist lazily.

She knew from his memory that this hadn't been his first time. Hardly. Probably not the best time, either. But she hoped that it had been the first time he had genuinely cared. The first time he hadn't been distracted. The first time it really registered what he was doing, with whom, and why. There was a reason it was called making love, after all, and she hoped it was the first time he had ever made love, not just had sex.

Hermione tried to direct her thoughts elsewhere, with little success.

He stirred gently beneath her, his long body stretching out a bit in a gentle awakening.

"Morning," she said, in a not-so-surprisingly raw voice.

His dark eyes opened, and they were as free of anger as she had ever seen them, as free of preoccupation, as free of anything at all. "Good morning, Ms. Granger," he murmured, and he smiled.

And the smile did not fade. Not even as she kissed him. Not even as time passed. And when she said, "This has got to be the first time your teeth have ever seen the light of day," his smile just brightened.

"Well, Tom, if I'd known the secret to making you smile was _this, _I would have done it a while ago."

"You waited until you were ready, and I would not have influenced you to do anything else."

She raised her eyebrows. "Tom Riddle afraid to take what he wants?"

His smile turned into a feline smirk, then, and he flipped her over so she lay on her back, and he knelt over her. "I'm never afraid. Especially not around you." He kissed her lazily, gently, that kiss that Hermione hadn't felt in a while – the one that said, _we have all the time in the world – _and Hermione felt like she would melt from satisfaction. She reached up a hand to his hair, which was so tangled, so laughably messy.

"Good," she whispered, "because the only thing I'm not afraid right now of is you."

Riddle didn't let the tiniest thing show on his face, but the words struck him, hard. His plan – _the _plan – was for the day after tomorrow. _The only thing I'm not afraid of right now is you._

The thing that had always set her apart was that she _was_ afraid of him. It was what had made her stick out so vividly in his mind at the very beginning, what had made her different, made him pursue what was in that mind of hers. And now... she wasn't afraid of him?

Because she trusted him.

A wave of preemptive guilt seemed to rush through Riddle, and just for a second he thought back to how he'd felt before the love potion. It was this same feeling, once more. Surely he wasn't doing something he'd regret later? Because Merlin knew he regretted the love potion now.

Sort of.

No, not fully. He still felt satisfied with the information he'd gotten, still recognized the worth that that move had had as a tactical strike. He hadn't meant to hurt her – after all, he'd meant to add that memory-removing component – but he had, after all that.

She'd understand, though, this time. She was in love with him – she _had_ to understand him. And he had seen his own curiosity in her eyes once before. He'd seen it right before he'd let her into his mind, as he suggested that he reveal his past to her – that greedycuriosity with which he was so familiar had been right there, plain on her face. There was no reason she shouldn't understand his motive for doing what he was going to do.

Two days.

He'd slept with her. Finally. It had been such a wave of emotions, of feelings, of pleasure – _yes_, it had been perfect_._ And he hadn't even had to ask. As planned...

Tom hadn't known what a difference emotional investment could make in something like sex. It had felt like a different activity entirely, actually, from what he was accustomed to.

He kissed the top of her head, her frizzy hair engulfing his lips briefly. Everything was in place. Everything was _perfect_, like it needed to be. Things were always more shocking when there wasn't a lead-up, when there was absolutely no hint that anything might possibly be out of place, and nothing was out of place right now, with her in his arms and he in hers.

xXxXxXxXx

Hermione frowned. The notice from the event committee was up, and it wasn't good. It was for a game involving a bunch of rings and hidden spaces and things. On broomsticks.

She sighed. After all her practice, she felt like a reasonably good flier, but it wasn't something she was about to do for _fun_. She'd hoped she might have something to look forward to on Thursday, but no.

"What is it?" Riddle asked as she sat down for dinner. Hermione rolled her eyes.

"I don't know, something about flying through rings or something. Nothing in which I'd care to participate."

"Oh, well," said Tom. "I can think of a... suitable alternate event, if you're not still worn out Thursday."

Hermione blushed bright red. "Tom!" For Merlin's sake, Abraxas and Herpo were sitting _right there_. Herpo had the grace to look away awkwardly, but Abraxas raised one eyebrow and a smirk appeared on his face.

"Care to repeat that?" he asked.

Hermione's face prickle uncomfortably. "Care to go hug the Whomping Willow?" she sniffed.

Abraxas chuckled. "Hey, calm down, calm down," he said. "Not like I was asking for an invitation to watch or anything."

Hermione's mouth opened in shock. "You are disgusting."

Riddle smirked. "It only becomes more evident as time goes on," he said, and stood up with a yawn. "Well, I'm off to attempt to finish that book you gave me."

"Really?" Hermione asked, her blush fading as she smiled.

"I figured I'd give it another shot."

"What book?" said Abraxas.

"It's by this Muggle called Dante," Riddle answered, thick irony coating his voice.

Abraxas let out a short laugh. "Sounds promising already."

Hermione frowned. "You two are absolutely incorrigible," she said. "It's called The Divine Comedy, and it's about a mortal's journey through the layers of Hell, Purgatory, and Heaven."

Abraxas sighed. "Well, that sounds cheerful. Have fun."

Riddle looked as if the word were an insult. "I shall attempt to, I suppose," he drawled, and left the Great Hall.

Hermione continued with her breakfast. "I don't suppose you have Quidditch today, Abraxas?"

He shook his head, saying, "Ravenclaw has the pitch booked, as usual. I'm wondering whether I should approach the Gryffindor team and see if we can band together to kick Ravenclaw off. They really are obnoxious."

"Gryffindor and Slytherin working together? What an idea," Hermione said.

Abraxas smirked. "Actually, though, Gryffindor's been having a bit of trouble getting themselves together since your friend – you know, she was the captain and the Keeper and all – since she moved on. I've felt quite bad for them."

Hermione swallowed. She'd forgotten that Mina had been the Quidditch Captain. Looking over at the Gryffindor table, Hermione found herself missing Godric, Miranda and Albus even more than usual, not even to mention Mina and R.J.

"You know, Abraxas," she said quietly, "I never asked you – what made you decide that you were all right with me and Riddle being together? It was a bit... sudden."

Abraxas put down his fork and crossed his arms on the table, seemingly thinking hard. "I... that's..."

"I mean, if you don't want to tell me -"

"No, no, I'm fine telling you. It's because... well, because I trust you, Hermione, and Riddle does seem to be different. He doesn't seem as... cold anymore, he hasn't called a meeting in a month – it's... well, to be honest, if it weren't you, I'd be suspicious, or downright scared."

Hermione was about to ask 'what meeting,' but something else clicked into place – she'd seen a congregation of boys down in the dungeons in Riddle's memory, Herpo, Abraxas, Revelend, Vaisey, Taylor, Takahashi. She hadn't really noticed it at the time, in light of other events... but of course... he had his own little group of followers here, like anywhere else. "I've got to ask," she said, "what did he say at those meetings?"

Abraxas blinked, and his eyes were suddenly a bit hollow. "I don't know if I should tell you anything specific, Hermione," he said uneasily. "Lots of Dark Magic involved, and he usually just warned us to stay out of the way of whatever plan he was planning. Vaguely."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "So... did that include me?"

Abraxas cast a look from side to side. "Frequently," he mumbled.

She swallowed, and there was another burst of realization. That one day that Eliot Vaisey had unfrozen her from Araminta's curse – that hadn't just been a random act of providence, it had been because of some sort of information from Riddle, in an attempt to keep her safe. "Oh," she said. She wasn't sure how to feel about it. So he had been... discussing her with these six guys ever since she'd first made herself suspicious? "But... you said there hasn't been one in..."

"A month, no," Abraxas said, surveying her expression with a frown. "Look, Hermione, it shouldn't be a source of worry."

"No, I'm not worried," she reassured quickly. "I just... it's odd to think about. No one else would... would do that type of thing, you know?" No, no one else would ever go around moonlighting as some sort of Lord of the Students. She didn't like the idea, not at all.

Another wave of pure nostalgia swept through Hermione, missing people who had no difficulty being open. But that wasn't fair to Tom – he really was trying to take everything she threw at him in stride. Stopping needless torture was more than a step in the right direction. Having stopped making secret plans was even better. And Hermione suppressed the memory of his past – after that, anything at all normal was practically admirable.

He finally seemed to understand, anyway, to a basic level. He seemed to sort of grasp what was right and what was wrong. Not everything was just a means to an end anymore. Maybe it was just a matter of someone finally _trusting_ him, someone being _close_ to him, being fully willing to help him and asking nothing in return.

Abraxas looked at her intently. "You sure you're all right, Hermione?"

"Yeah. I just – I miss my friends," she said in a small voice. That was the part she could say aloud.

Abraxas cast a glance over his shoulder at the Gryffindors. "Will they still not even talk to you?"

"Can't even look at me without giving me _that _look. And there's nothing I can do, either. That one action of Tom's has them convinced he's completely rotten, which isn't quite fair."

"No, especially not when there's so much else to indicate he's completely rotten."

Hermione gave him a murderous glare, and he sighed. "Just kidding. Honestly, Hermione – I hate to say it, but if they're really the type of person who would make it an us-or-them type of situation, they're probably not worth your time."

"But they _are_ worth my time," Hermione said fiercely. "They're so _nice_, and so good, and – and _innocent_, and warm_, _and..."

Abraxas's eyes filled with understanding. "You mean, exactly like Riddle isn't?"

Hermione opened her mouth to object, but she thought about what she'd said. It had been entirely subconscious, but that was completely accurate. "Yes. I ... you're right. Really, come on – even just sitting here, with you, when he's not here, is like... well, it's like a breath of fresh air. And even saying that is unfair to him. I _love_ him. Why do I feel like this?"

There was a long silence. Hermione realized that her hand had wound itself into her hair. She removed it with a bit of difficulty.

"Love doesn't necessarily mean he's perfect," Abraxas said quietly. "He's obviously different. And I don't know why that is, but maybe you do – and just because you love someone, doesn't mean you can't get overexposed."

Hermione was silent. Abraxas continued, "If someone were in love with me, I wouldn't want them to be around me all the damn time, you know? They'd get absolutely fed up with me. People need space. It's a fact of life."

She let out a long sigh, still looking a bit despondent. Abraxas reached across the table and clapped her on the shoulder. "Come on. Let's take a walk."

Hermione stood, and they both walked out of the Entrance Hall, Hermione glancing back at the Gryffindor table, more emotions flooding back through her veins. Missing R.J. _so_ much – missing Ron and Harry _intolerably_ much, Merlin – and Neville, Ginny, Luna, all the people she'd grown up with...

She and Abraxas strolled down by the still-frozen-solid lake. Hermione stepped onto it, and it creaked ominously, so she sat down in the snow, letting a puff of a sigh fly from her mouth. "I feel like I don't have _anyone_ but him," she said, voicing a thought she'd hardly let herself think.

"I'm here," Abraxas told her instantly. "I don't care what happens. I'm your friend."

Hermione sighed. "Thanks, Abraxas. I do appreciate it, I really do. I just – he has so much of me. I feel like it's almost dangerous, how much I _feel_ for him, you know?"

Abraxas nodded. Oh, yes, he'd felt that before. "I know. Like if he were to leave you, you'd just fall down and never get back up."

Hermione swallowed. "If I didn't know he loved me, I'd be scared for myself."

Abraxas averted his eyes. _If I were you, I'd still be scared. It keeps you on your guard..._ "Honestly, it's safer to be just a little scared, because then if something were to happen, you wouldn't go completely... completely insane." _Like I did, over her._

"But I can't stop myself," Hermione said, staring at her feet. "I just... he's like an addiction." She felt stupid saying it, but it was so true, such a perfect description. She nearly expected Abraxas to laugh, but he didn't.

"I'd be careful," Abraxas told her, his voice sensitive and careful. "Letting any one person be everything to you is really..."

"Dangerous," Hermione finished softly. "Especially when it's him. I know. I've just never felt this before. Never felt this... _much_. I feel like it's all for him, like everything about me happened just for him."

"Yeah?" said Abraxas. He didn't say any more.

_That's when you know you're in too deep to recover._

_You're done._

xXxXxXxXx

Riddle woke up early on Thursday. Today was the day. Hermione lay next to him, and he felt something almost like dread pooling in his stomach as he looked at her. But then the want to know clawed its way back to the top, and he almost felt satisfied already. By the time the day was done, he was _sure_ he would know. Absolutely sure. And then he could get on with his life. So to speak.

He kissed Hermione lightly on the cheek before rolling out of bed.

Riddle crossed into Hermione's room, looked around, and flicked his wand. The bed made itself, and Hermione's clothes lined themselves up neatly in the dresser drawers, which slid shut quietly. Everything had to be just right – nothing out of place.

He walked back into his own room. Hermione was still lying in bed, asleep, but she woke up as he opened the bedcurtains.

"It's late," he said.

She smiled sleepily and yawned. Riddle's eyes softened, and he stood back as she slid out of bed. "What's the time?" she asked.

"Eleven o'clock."

"And what time's the game start?" She started pulling on her shoes.

"One," he replied. "Are you actually going to do it?" That wouldn't do, not at all. It had been so terribly convenient that it had been flying, something she wouldn't feel like doing...

She shrugged, raising an eyebrow. "Depends. Would you care to convince me otherwise?"

Riddle smirked and circled around behind her, sliding his hands down her sides to rest on her hips. "How much convincing do you need?" he murmured. He leaned down and placed his lips to the crook of her neck.

She leaned backwards into him, shivers pricking at her skin. "Not much." He straightened up a little, and she turned to kiss him. "Lunch?"

"Yes. I'll meet you in a minute."

He sighed, the list of events working themselves out in his head. Now he just needed to get the third party. Hermione always took a bath in the Prefects' Bathroom after lunch, so he had planned accordingly – Merlin forbid she suddenly change her usual schedule.

Riddle flicked his wand, making the bed, and walked down to the Great Hall.

Lunch passed quietly. Riddle assumed that the reason his stomach seemed a little unsettled was because of excitement for finally being able to know, and he kept everything off his expression as he finished lunch.

He glanced down at the end of the table, where the third party was sitting, and then back at Hermione. "So, what are you doing now?"

"I'm going to freshen up a bit. Shall I meet you in your room in twenty minutes?"

"That sounds perfect."

She kissed him on the cheek quickly and left.

Riddle stayed and picked at some bread until he saw Araminta standing and leaving – and then he, too, stood, following her from the Great Hall.

Thank God the girl wasn't with her two friends. That would have been inconvenient. She started to walk up the Grand Staircase, and Riddle hurried after her.

Araminta turned down the second floor corridor. She was going to the bathroom, since some idiot had hexed the pipes on the first floor one – and she was _most_ surprised when a hand suddenly caught hers and turned her around.

Her green eyes widened. "T-Tom?"

Since she'd found out that he and the Granger girl were legitimately together, that he legitimately loved the Gryffindor girl, Araminta hadn't even tried giving him a second glance. After all, it was very impolite to chase after another woman's man, very impolite indeed – no matter how many tears she had cried over it, no matter how much she'd told herself that it wasn't fair that he liked Granger – she would never try to steal someone else's boyfriend, and she stuck to that, telling herself, _Araminta, you are better than doing that._

But still – seeing him standing there, tall, dark, striking... it brought back memories for Araminta, memories of that one sweet kiss he'd given her, memories of falling head-over-heels for him like she had never fallen before. It was difficult to look at him. Araminta averted her eyes.

"Hello, Araminta," he said, in that polite, quiet voice she'd missed hearing so much. It pulled at her.

"Hi," she replied quietly. "Listen, I'm – I'm sorry for doing all those things to your…your girlfriend – I honestly thought that she was only getting on your nerves, and -"

"I'm not here for that."

Araminta frowned. "Well... what is it?"

He looked like he was trying not to say something.

"Tom, what is it?" she repeated softly.

"I miss you," he blurted, and then put a fist to his lips and closed his eyes, as if he hadn't meant to say the words.

Araminta was rooted to the spot. How many times had she imagined him saying exactly that? She opened her mouth a little, but could do nothing more but examine his face, wondering if this was really happening... "You... miss me?" she said, her voice openly mistrustful. "Tom, you haven't even looked at me since I started sitting with my friends at meals."

"Do you frequently see me doing things in public I want to do?" he said quietly, his eyes almost too intense to look at, creased with what might have been pain. That was a good point, Araminta thought. He was always so reserved – he never did anything for himself, really, at all. She'd only ever seen him get mad once, at her – and it had been one of the scarier moments of her life...

Still, though – "Why are you telling me this now?"

"Because you're away from your friends for once," he replied, as if it were just a bit obvious. Araminta bit her lip. Of course – she was spending a lot of time with Barda and Angela these days, if only to ward off the empty feeling she got whenever her gaze happened to stray over to Tom.

"But... but you have... Hermione," Araminta said. It was the first time she'd ever said the girl's name, and it felt like bitter poison on her lips, because it was true. He had her, and she had him as Araminta had never had him.

"I don't care," Riddle's voice said, and behind it was a note of fierceness that Araminta didn't think she'd heard before. "I want _you_."

There was something wrong about this. Something very wrong. But when his lips met hers, Araminta felt like she had never been able to think anything at all. Every thought fled her mind, every doubt, everything... everything. His kiss was exactly as she remembered it, careful, yet controlled, and the feel of his strong mouth was exquisite.

He broke the kiss, and she drew in a slow breath, staring up into his face with a look that was so adoring that she felt if she could see herself she would be sick.

As he took her hand and led her back to the staircase, she felt a tiny, secret part of her yelling something she couldn't quite understand, something that was telling her not to do this, but the reason was a blur. After all, when it came to Tom Riddle, could she really resist? He was her greatest weakness, her fatal flaw, her Achilles' heel, and she could not hear a word against him, not even when she herself was saying it.

xXxXxXxXx

Hermione pulled herself out of the bath and lay on the tile, staring up at the ceiling. She felt a bit nervous at the prospect of sleeping with Tom, because she wondered secretly if she was terrible and he just wasn't telling her. Although his complete lack of social grace would probably indicate that if she were terrible, he would just come out and tell her, what with this new 'blunt honesty' thing he seemed to be trying.

Hermione sighed and dried herself off, checking herself in the mirror before walking up to the Head Boy and Girl rooms.

She opened his door and looked over to the bed.

That was weird – it was empty. Empty, and perfectly made. It had been twenty minutes; usually he was punctual to a fault.

Hermione sighed and flopped over on the bed, smelling his smell in the sheets. She ran a hand through her damp hair and looked over at the door. No Tom Riddle made his way through.

She rolled her eyes. She wasn't going to just sit here and wait around. In fact, she was just starting to read this very interesting section in Albus' Runic Spells book about limb manipulation, so she would just go back into her room and _he_ could wait for _her_ once he decided to show up.

Hermione closed his door behind her, opened hers, and then it was as if someone had opened a trapdoor beneath her, sending her plummeting into a personal hell.

She stared at the bed. The door swung shut behind her with a cold _bang_, and the two figures who were kissing furiously on the bed – _her _bed – disengaged. Her mind was suddenly jumbled, completely confused, swimming with unsatisfied thoughts and absolute horror and questions she didn't think could be answered by anything –

Tom's hair was messy as he stared at her. Araminta's was, too, and she looked almost dazed, like she didn't know what was going on. "Tom?" Hermione's voice said involuntarily, and a vicious look appeared on his face. Hermione took a step back. Was this real?

"Don't call me that, you filthy Mudblood," he spat, his eyes midnight dark.

Hermione's mouth opened. It was like a huge metal fist had collided with her chest. She stumbled backwards, her eyes wide, and her mind swirled even further, completely discombobulated – everything was out of order – nothing was as it should have been – and then before she could do anything at all –

"Legilimens," he said quietly, and she hadn't even seen him take out his wand but there it was in his hand – and then she was on her knees, _screaming_ as the memory tore its way to the forefront of her mind, out from where she'd hidden it, like something was _ripping_ its way out of her skull –

Her eyes shut, and everything was dark, and then in her mind's eye she was opening the door to the Room of Requirement. Everything seemed skewed, the dimensions too tall and too long, the brights too bright and too green and the darks too sullen, for the first four days, which flicked by in a series of hysterical fits of terror and reinforcing the door with all she had –

Hermione was sleeping in that bed and then _bang bang bang_ and she looked up and the door literally flew from its hinges, and in its place formed a wall, brick by brick, and there was no way out, and she found herself staring into the cloud-white face of the Dark Lord Voldemort, and on his papery lips there was a vicious smirk, and he snapped his fingers and everything about the room vanished, and in its place was just left a small, stone chamber, fifteen feet by fifteen feet squared of rocky floor, rocky floor that Hermione would come to know so well, with tall stone walls all four identical rising on all sides and small windows letting in the moonlight right next to the stone ceiling, but yet it was so very dark –

And he knelt by her fallen body, his long thin fingers reaching for her face, and she trembled and shut her eyes as his breath hit her – although it did not smell like blood as she felt it should have – and his fingers found her neck and tilted her face up to look at him and every tiny last bit of her body was shaking, shaking as if she were vibrating with some demonic spell, and small whimpers were coming out of her throat and he said –

"You're the Mudblood. Potter's friend,"

And she opened her mouth but out came no words just tiny sobs and he said, "I'm going to ask you some questions, and if you do not answer them immediately, then I shall cast Crucio on you until you are ruined, and then I shall kill you," and he raised his wand, and she brought hers out with a desperately shaking hand, and fired a spell at him but he only smiled a little and flicked his wand, and her spell just _vanished_ and her wand was in his hand –

And he stood up and tucked away her wand, tucked away her last hope, and Hermione looked up at him with hopeless eyes as he said, "Where is Harry Potter?"

But she closed her eyes and as she said "I don't know" his foot connected with her jaw as if he had fully expected it, and her body spun across the floor and he said, "Crucio," and then the screaming started, and from there it did not stop –

No _no no no no, no_ it did not stop as she screamed over and over and _I don't know _I don't know "I don't know" I DON'T KNOW _and that single word,_ that word he so delighted in saying, and though he barraged her mind with Legilimency.- Hermione found that it was not so hard to evade that:; for she honestly could not find it within herself to let a thought drift across her mind...; _what was it Snape had always said, "Clear your mind, Harry," clear your mind Hermione now that's not so hard is it? No no it is not and –_

Screaming, moonlight, red eyes and though the moon changed into sun and back again Hermione found that she had somehow managed to lock part of herself away – _halfway through the second day, we areso we are herewe are, we're making it we're doing it just kill me now just kill me now JUST KILL ME NOW –_ and the Dark Lord said – "If you really know nothing about his whereabouts you'll let me into your mind, Mudblood",– _mudbloodmudblood mudblood_ and she bit her lip so hard she bit right through it, but that ,pain was nothing.,nothing compared to the pain that was -_shooting_ up and down her _every limb_ _everything and – everything and over _and. over again;…she was wriggling like a dying cricket under his wand ,.eyes WIDE and then closed and then,.then, wide again and then a blood vessel burst in them with a _pop of red like a firework _and still she wouldnotsaya_thing_ other. Other... other than _other than_

"I DON'T KNOW"

And the moon had gone away three times and now it was back... and though she'd locked away her humanity as if it were nothing, she slowly felt it stream back as he stopped... stopped the pain... stopped it all everything nothing all

She could not move, for it was the pain was her it was and fighting thrashing through her blood and if she moved well? if she moved well she would just die surely, and why was it not continuing she didn't know:, hermione granger stared up at him,youand and the and burst blood vessel in her eye slowly repaired yourself under his wand and she wondered why he is were you're slowly pressing her own? wand back into her?my the hand and then his cold fingers traced along her neck and he picked a spot. and his wand was pressed there pressed there still there today – pressed cold gentle icy just like his eyes which surveyed her with almost appreciation and he said?was it what he said or what he what she – _heard_ or what she thought?but ._but_-his eyes

"you are worthless"

and then... and then the wandtip rested lightly on her and the last two words her body would ever hear – and as she heard him start to say them her lips moved up at the corners in a last smile in a last defiant gesture of you cruel I don't know what you are but I've won I've won _I've won_ _youwillnevereverbringmedown _and then

_Avada Kedavra_

it was over.

xXxXxXxXx

Araminta jumped in shock as he cast the spell, and suddenly his eyes were glassy, and his face was drawn, and Hermione Granger was on her knees and she was screaming.

Araminta's eyes were wider than they had ever been. She'd never heard a scream like that. Never. Not even when Tom had been cursed down in the dungeons. It hurt to listen to, and not just because of the volume, and not just because it hurt to look at Granger's face, which was contorted into an expression of complete agony, tears pouring down her face...

Araminta looked back at Tom, and she realized she didn't understand anything at all. She didn't understand why he had kissed her. She didn't understand why he'd called his own girlfriend a Mudblood. She didn't understand why he'd had his wand in his hand like he'd planned it all...

She slid from the bed. It wasn't ending. It was going on, and on, and on.

Araminta placed a hand to Hermione's face, placed the sleeve of her robe to the girl's face, wiping away her tears, saying, "Granger, Granger – wake up -" for Araminta didn't know what Legilimency even was. She'd never been stellar at wandwork; Potions had always been her single forte, her passion. Granger's mouth was still open, and that scream was still tearing from it.

Araminta's hands took Hermione's face in them, and Araminta fell to her knees, and said, "Wake up! Wake up –" but of course nothing happened.

This was too unnerving. This was disturbing; this was practically nightmarish. Tom's eyes still looked weird, flat, unfocused, _dead, _but Araminta didn't dare approach him – what if Granger suddenly lurched back to life and attacked her?

Araminta fled. She didn't know what she'd gotten herself into – what _he'd_ gotten her into – but she fled, and she didn't look back at the boy sitting on the bed.

xXxXxXxXx

_It was him._

There was one thought in Riddle's mind. One thought exactly, no more and no less. _He had tortured Hermione Granger for three days straight, and then he had murdered her._

_ I tortured Hermione Granger for three days straight, and then I murdered her._

It was him. It had always been him. He himself had killed her. He had ripped her life from limb. He had ruined her human body with the Cruciatus Curse. And when she was curled at his feet, and it was clear she would not break, clear she was useless to him, he'd killed her.

She was here purely because of him.

_I killed the one person I have ever loved._

Riddle was on the floor. He didn't know how long he'd spent in her memories. It was still bright outside. He was standing up, now – he was standing and she was standing too, and he had _never_ seen her look like this, not once. She looked at him as if he were someone else entirely. A stranger. Someone she didn't know, not at all, had never known.

He walked to her and he was lifting a hand to place it on her shoulder but then her wand was in her hand and he was on his knees, unable to do a thing, unable to say a thing.

Coldness invaded her eyes. All that warmth, all that familiar warmth – it was snuffed out. Hermione leaned, shaking, against the bedpost, and she looked at him with the eyes of a murderer.

Tears dripped from her cheeks. She ignored them as they came pouring from her eyes; she didn't give them any sort of heed.

"I'm going to speak now," she said, and her voice was flat and blank, emotionless like he had never heard before, and he found he was terrified. "And you're going to listen."

"Even though you didn't know it, I told myself... that you weren't the one who killed me. I told myself that you were not quite that Voldemort of the future. I told myself that you were _Tom Riddle._ And that person – Tom Riddle – he was someone else. He was someone to me. And after I saw your past, I thought, _Tom Riddle is_ _different_. And then I let you be someone to me. For me."

She took a breath, and that terrible, lifeless tone continued. "I was wrong. I lied to myself. I lied to you and I lied to myself about you. You're not Lord Voldemort. You're not Tom Riddle. You're not _different_, and you're not _special_. You're just a sad, stupid little boy who can't stand not getting his way. You're just someone who never learned to grow up."

She leaned forward from the bedpost and stood on her own two feet. "I never should have spent what little life I've got left healing you. I never should have wanted you; I never should have kissed you; I never should have _touched _you. I never should have wasted that room in my heart on you. You're not worth the air you're breathing. You're not worth the space in hell you'll occupy."

And now – _now_ – anger started to work its way back into her tone.

"I can't believe myself, thinking this wouldn't happen again. I can't believe I thought you'd changed. I even – Merlin, I even said it before – _you will never change._ If you needed me dead, right now, you'd kill me, and you'd probably enjoy it. If you needed me hurt, you'd hurt me. If you needed _anyone_ hurt, you'd hurt them. You already have. What you've done to Araminta is _sick_."

She drew in a deep breath. "I've wondered for most of my life about one particular psychological concept. Nature versus nurture, it's called, though you wouldn't care. But I'm not wondering anymore. No matter what might have – what you might – what happened – you were born evil. You were born sick. You were born _wrong._ And you'll die evil, and sick, and wrong, and you'll stay here forever, and – and forever, and I – I'm – I..."

And then she broke. Her resolve completely shattered. She stumbled backwards, clutching to the bedpost as if for dear life. "Fool me once," she hissed through clenched teeth, her voice so strained it was dark and low, "shame on you... but – but – _shame on me_, because I should have known this would happen, I should have known I'd just keep trailing back to this goddamn _shame_ over and over, like a stupid fool, like your stupid _fool!_"

Her mouth opened in a silent sob. "I love you. And what does that even mean to you? Do you even know what that _means_ to me? I thought you were smart, and I know you think you're smart, but you're _not!_ You're an _idiot_. You're a – a murderous, blind, unfeeling monster, and you killed your father and your grandparents and you killed me, and... and dear _God_, I should have _known_, I did know, I _knew_; what _happened_ to me?"

She trailed off and stood there, her chest heaving in and out as she sucked in breath after hopeless breath. "I wish you'd never been born," she whispered, staring at him again with utter disbelief. "I wish you'd only ever been some poor person's bad dream. It probably doesn't matter to you what I feel right now, what I've ever felt, what I will _ever feel_, but right now I feel like I would rather have never discovered the magical world so that you could never have _done this to me!_" Her voice swelled into a raw scream. "YOU ARE THE FOULEST THING THAT HAS EVER LIVED!"

And she seemed to buckle inwards a bit, "I HATE YOU," and her wand hand faltered, "I HATE YOU!" and the spell was broken but he didn't dare move, didn't dare breathe as she seemed to scream even while she was breathing, and then she whispered, "dear God please help me," and her eyes turned upwards as if she were really hoping God would just make himself known, her eyes that were practically swollen shut they were so red, and then – and then – then she stumbled for the door – that wooden door, scrabbling for it, slamming it shut – and she was gone.

He didn't even watch her go. He just stared at the space where she'd stood, where she'd said those last words to him, the last words he thought he might ever hear that would ever matter to him.

Tom Riddle couldn't seem to feel anything. His eyes were wide and staring. The air didn't seem to have a smell; his slightly-open, shallowly-breathing mouth didn't seem to taste; there was no temperature in the room; there was no blood in his veins.

He didn't know where it had gone wrong, but then, yes, he did – it had gone wrong when he'd been put on the earth, and it would be wrong until he left it.


	27. Chapter 27

It seemed like years before she reached the Room of Requirement, even though she was sprinting. No one was in the halls to stare, or to care about her.

_I should have listened to Abraxas._

But right then she couldn't seem to cry anymore. Every bit of feeling seemed to have deserted her body. She felt... dry. Dried-up, dried-out, sucked dry of absolutely everything. And then the door to the Room of Requirement was slamming shut, and she was in that exact room that the D.A. had used to meet in so long ago, and books lined the walls.

Yes. This was it. This was where she should have been this entire time. Not building a life here. Not meeting the people here.

_I need a quill._ And then there was one on top of the nearest low bookshelf, and Hermione looked up at the warm lights and sat on a brightly-colored beanbag, and she wrote on her arm, _Harry Potter, back on earth, is hiding inside the chimney in the Gryffindor common room. Ron Weasley is hiding under the third flagstone in the common room as you walk in from the portrait hole._ Hermione blew lightly on the ink until it dried, and then she very calmly aimed her wand at herself and said, "Obliviate."

She blinked. What exactly had she erased from her memory? She couldn't remember... But it didn't matter. She was still sitting there, in the Room of Requirement, most definitely not flying back to Earth, although she could have sworn she felt something... solidify in her, like there was something caught in her chest, something tightening... but she was here. Not on Earth. Here.

Tears of frustration came to Hermione's eyes, and she lifted her sleeve to wipe them away and caught the sight of words written on her arm.

She read the sentences, and relief flooded her. _Thank God I wrote them down..._ and then she memorized the words, wiped them away, and curled up in her beanbag, and sobbed until her eyes were numb.

xXxXxXxXx

She didn't really know how long it had been. She never felt like she needed to eat. And every time she directed her attention away from her studies, she felt as if her heart was breaking anew, so she simply did not direct her attentions away.

She was curious about the Runic Spells book, and as soon as she wanted it, it appeared on the shelf in front of her. Hermione read her way through the thick tome in a matter of hours, and then she took out her wand. A dummy appeared opposite her, and Hermione turned to the first section of the Runic Spells book.

_Offensive magicks._

The first spell she tried – a yellow triangle of runes – spun through the air and smashed into the target with a deafening _bang_. Hermione stared, wide-eyed, at the ruined dummy, satisfaction filling her, and then she toppled over in a dead faint.

When she woke, she eagerly worked her way through eight more offensive spells, fainting after each one, waking, continuing. It did strange things to her body, things that she felt would have hurt a lot more if she had been able to feel anything more than... anything more than she could. Two of her nails died, fading black and dropping off, and replacing them was an inconvenience. Blood vessels burst in her eyes. Her teeth yellowed and her nose bled. Her legs started feeling like they were made out of jelly, but she continued, not really caring much about the physical effects – surely all that mattered was that she could do this, was that she could master this, master everything, get _everything under control –_

But then – then it was strange, because after the next spell she tried, one that spun in a red line towards the target and sliced it head from shoulders – after that... she just took a staggering step back, felt woozy, but she felt... as if she could continue.

Hermione found another book on Runic Spells on the shelf, one that was all about theory, and she read it in an hour.

Apparently, like a poison, one could build up a _resistance_ to Runic Spellcasting. By repeated use, and repeated drained energy... and Hermione felt a vicious greed invade her. She wanted this power. She wanted it desperately.

So she tried spell after spell, toppled over time after time... and she found herself slowly improving, though bits of her were actually dropping off dead... she replaced them, nail after nail, tooth after tooth. Clumps of her hair were falling out. She replaced those too. It didn't matter. Power. Strength. Resilience. _Whatever it took_.

_Yes._

She was stronger now. Now no one would ever hurt her again. After all, she'd worked through the entire Defense section of Albus' book... there was no way anyone could ever manage to get their way through her defenses. Not anymore. There was no way. No way at all.

And even as Hermione thought the words, an image of Tom Riddle's smile thrust itself to the forefront of her brain, and she let out a strangled noise of rage and leaned her head against the bookshelf, wishing she had the willpower just to Obliviate it all from her memory... wishing she even had the desire to do so in the first place.

Hermione dug herself back into her magic. She could control magic. It was malleable. It would bend to her will. With her wand... with her wand, she had power, and she could choose what did what, and she would never be hurt by it. Not by her closest friend, the only person she could trust not to hurt her or to die or to leave her – herself.

xXxXxXxXx

To say that Abraxas Malfoy was unhappy would have been a gross understatement. No one had seen Hermione Granger in six days, but all Abraxas knew was that she hadn't moved on. That was all Riddle would tell him, or anyone.

"Are you -"

"Yes, I'm sure."

If Riddle had been quiet before, now he was practically a mute. Abraxas didn't know where Riddle went during the day, or if he slept during the night, for bags had bruised themselves in under his eyes as if someone had punched them. He showed up for meals. But he never seemed to react to anything. He would not say anything when Malfoy asked him most questions, but ones about Hermione made him stare blankly ahead and answer mechanically. Always the same thing. "All I know is that she hasn't moved on." "Yes, I'm sure." "No, I don't know where she is."

Dueling Club had started again, but Abraxas was having difficulty focusing, with Riddle so corpse-like and Hermione so noticeably absent.

But then... then there was something. Abraxas was sitting at lunch, and he turned to see two girls in Gryffindor robes standing behind him. "Er, hello," he said uneasily.

"Hi," said the one on the left, in an airy voice. Her brown hair was straight and bobbed, and she had distant blue eyes. The other girl had slightly darker, wavy hair, and her eyes flashed with fire, even though Abraxas wasn't doing anything.

"Can I help you?" he said after a second.

"You can tell us where Hermione Granger is," said the one on the right. "My name is Minerva McGonagall. This is Miranda Goshawk. We're both very concerned about Ms. Granger, her whereabouts, and the rest."

"I hope she's okay," Miranda said in a small voice. "We haven't spoken, and if she's gone, I'll feel terrible."

Abraxas swallowed and stood up. "I think you should come with me. And I think you should find anyone else who cares about Hermione, and you should bring them, too."

Fifteen minutes later, Abraxas was in a classroom with Herpo, Revelend, McGonagall, Miranda, Godric Gryffindor, Albus Dumbledore, Catalina Lightfoot, Mungo Bonham, and Jared Pippin. "Well, aren't we diverse," Abraxas murmured, looking around. "You lot, the fact is that I have no idea where on earth Hermione Granger is, and the only person who might possibly know isn't saying a word. And yes, that is Tom Riddle."

Eyes darkened at the words. "Can't we get that information out of him somehow?" protested Godric. "If the stupid git has her locked up in some dungeon somewhere, then I feel as if we should get him to tell us."

"Riddle won't say anything," sighed Abraxas. "Not unless he wants to. And he inevitably won't. In fact, he's been acting really, really odd these days."

"Is that a change?" asked Catalina, raising an eyebrow.

"Actually," replied Abraxas, meeting Catalina's brown eyes readily, "it is. He won't say a word unless it's to do with Hermione. He goes around looking like he's seen the Bloody Baron hiding in his sock drawer. And he won't bloody tell anyone what's the matter."

Albus sighed. "I, personally, can't be worried too much about Riddle when Hermione's missing. I propose we simply scour the grounds and the castle until we find her."

"Easy for you to say, after you ditched her for the past month," said Herpo, uncharacteristically antagonistic. Godric glared at him.

"Listen, you all, shut up," Abraxas said tiredly. "I'd just like to see Hermione's face again. I'd just like to know that she's not hopelessly lost in the Forbidden Forest or trapped at the bottom of the lake. Can we just... I don't know, maybe work together?"

There were general nods around the room. "Blimey," mumbled Godric, "I didn't think that she could manage to get herself lost in Hogwarts..."

"She's not lost," said Mungo quietly. "She doesn't want to be found."

Eyes turned to him. He shrugged. "Hermione's a smart girl," Jared added, glancing at Mungo. "I think it's safe to assume that whatever she's doing, it's intentional."

"Or Riddle's done something to her," Godric said, eyes dark. There was silence. No one really had anything to say that might contradict that.

"All right," said McGonagall's sharp voice. "Shall we pair up and search, then?"

xXxXxXxXx

Tom Riddle lay in bed. He hadn't done much else over the last six days, and he hadn't done much thinking, either, because thinking hurt. Thinking inevitably led back to her. Thinking inevitably led back to her words. Thinking made him realize how illogical he'd been, and then he felt himself slipping, as if on an icy slope, towards some huge pit of emotion that he had never encountered before. He didn't know what it was, but he was not inclined to find out.

So he lay there, mind blank, and stared at the canopy above him. The only thing he really allowed himself to register was that he was alone.

There was no warm body in his arms.

There was no small hand on the curve of his face.

There were no lips on his.

And those were facts. Facts were logical. Facts held no emotion. He held no emotion.

He was scared even to turn his head to the left or the right, scared he would see something that reminded him of her. Riddle could not let that happen.

And yet there was this strong, strong pull inside of him. Nearly an _upward_ pull, as if something inside him were fighting to lift him from the ground.

But he was too broken, heart and soul, to acknowledge that in its entirety, or to analyze it, or to let it do anything for him.

xXxXxXxXx

Hermione Granger panted as she flicked her wand. This was her sixth Runic Spell in a row. No weakness. No fainting. No anything.

A cold smile came across her lips as the dummy was pinned flat on the ground. Hermione knew that if it were a person, it would have been rendered completely immobile. Excellent indeed.

Then she started firing nonverbal spells at it as it lay there, helpless under jinx after hex after curse – but never Dark magic. No. Never that. She could do well enough without Dark magic, do well enough without anything that had even the faintest, slightest inclination of an influence from _him._ He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. You-Know-Who. But she was not _afraid_ of his name, not anymore – she just would not let it cross her mind, wouldn't let it defile her with its traitorous, despicable touch –

Hermione held the small yellow book closer to her face, like the pages would wipe away her thoughts.

She stood, holding the book in her left hand, wand in her right, and started an intricate series of containment charms. Immobility charms. Spells to control the bodies of others.

Hermione jerked her wand forward. The dummy sat up abruptly. She twisted her wand, and the dummy flew in a chaotic circle, dumped itself back on the ground, and lay there, a sad pile of discombobulated cloth limbs. She flicked her wand, and it stood itself back up again for another bout. Hermione hoped this dummy didn't have nerve endings – she'd be sentenced to life in Azkaban if it ever testified as to what she'd done to it.

xXxXxXxXx

Albus and Godric poked around the dungeons.

"Why did we even show up?" Godric murmured. "We've been furious with her for a month, just like that Herpo git said."

"We wouldn't have been mad with her if we didn't care about her," Albus replied. "You must admit, Godric, that part of you was just fearful for her safety."

"I dunno, most of me was just mad," said Godric. "But it's strange, mate – I don't really feel mad anymore."

"That's part of recovery," Albus said quietly, and placed a reassuring hand on Godric's shoulder. "I ceased to be angry a while ago, but I assumed she was just happier without us. Although I still have my suspicions about Riddle."

"Yeah, he's evil," said Godric simply. "Let's go."

xXxXxXxXx

"This place is sure different without any animals," said Miranda absentmindedly, looking around at the trees.

Revelend nodded in agreement. "There are Thestrals here, though."

"Really?" said Miranda, her eyes wide. "Wow. How does that work?"

McGonagall forged ahead, calling, "Hermione?" into the sunlit trees. Her voice echoed back at them.

"I don't really understand it," Revelend said, looking around. "Although they are sort of creepy."

"Oh, definitely," agreed Miranda, nodding. "Not half as strange as the other species in their genus, though – Skindrifts."

Revelend frowned. "I... uh, I've never heard of those."

Miranda sighed. "No one seems to do their magical creatures research properly, I swear."

McGonagall glanced back at them and said, "Any sign of anything?"

"No," said Miranda, "but there's a Thestral." McGonagall took an uneasy step back from where the Thestral was emerging from the trees.

But it wasn't a normal Thestral. Whereas the usual creatures were gaunt and skeletal, these Thestrals were glossy and well-fed. Their eyes were not white and pupil-less; they were large, dark, and disturbingly human. Their leathery wings were not ragged or worn, but smooth, as if cloaks of velvet.

"Hello, there," Miranda said absentmindedly. "I don't suppose you'd know where Hermione is?"

A snort of breath from the Thestral's nostrils, and the black creature jerked its dark head as if to indicate that they should follow. Revelend and McGonagall exchanged an uneasy glance as Miranda followed it.

"It's just leading us back out of the forest," said Revelend quietly after a moment.

McGonagall sighed. "Well, that's that, I suppose. Where shall we look next?" But the Thestral halted at the edge of the forest, fixing them with that eerie stare.

Two other Thestrals made their way to the edge of the trees, each as strangely well-groomed as the first. "I think they want us to get on," Miranda said, and now she sounded hesitant. "I don't know; I don't like heights..."

McGonagall clambered onto the nearest one. Revelend helped Miranda up onto hers, and then followed, also looking a bit uneasy. "Do you know where Ms. Granger is?" said McGonagall, and as if it were a key phrase, suddenly the Thestrals were airborne.

The flight was short and rocky. The three Thestrals flew towards the castle, jostling for place as if all three were being pulled by one strong magnet. Miranda's face was white, and her hands were wound into the Thestral's mane. She squeezed her eyes shut as they sped towards the castle wall, and then the Thestrals flapped their spectral wings, staying relatively stationary outside the window.

McGonagall reached out and unlatched the window, swinging it open, and then made a smooth transition from Thestral to windowsill. She held out her hands for Miranda, who looked paler than death, but she managed to grapple her way over. Revelend slithered quietly from his Thestral onto the windowsill, and then he ducked his way through.

McGonagall said, "Thank you," even as the Thestrals flew away. Revelend looked down the hall. Mungo and Jared were approaching.

"Oi, I thought you three said you'd take the Forest?" said Pippin.

"Thestrals took us here," said Miranda quietly, and looked around. "Very strange, how they looked. Not at all like normal Thestrals." Pippin and Mungo caught up with them.

Mungo frowned. "I wonder why they delivered you here, specifically."

McGonagall glanced around. Her eyes fell on a tapestry right across from the blank wall – the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. Understanding seeped into her eyes. "Is this the seventh floor?" she asked. Pippin nodded.

McGonagall walked up to the wall, and then paced back and forth. Miranda let out an audible gasp when the door appeared, displacing the stone with no noise, a small, wooden door.

Then McGonagall rapped on it. "May we come in?" she said sharply.

xXxXxXxXx

Hermione looked up slowly from her book. Someone was knocking on the door. She hadn't thought to ask for a room no one could find, because she assumed no one would really care enough to attempt to find her.

Whose voice was that? A sharp female voice, one that was very familiar...

She stood up, closing the spellbook. She wondered briefly what time it was – she hadn't bothered with a clock, and she didn't know how many days it had been, and she didn't care much, not really...

Hermione flicked her wand at the door. It swung open.

She blinked in mild surprise. There were five people there, three of whom she hadn't spoken with in a month. "Hello," she said, her voice weirdly mechanical. She hadn't said anything besides spells in a very long time.

They all knew instantly that something was off with Hermione Granger. She stood with her feet shoulder-width apart, her wand held tight in her right hand, her face emotionless, her eyes narrower than normal. Like she was getting ready to fight something. Her eyes were bloodshot, and she looked unhealthy. Brittle, almost, with hair so insanely chaotic it could have nested many a bird.

"Granger, what have you been _doing_?" said McGonagall sharply. "Do you have any idea how long you've been in that room?"

"No," said Hermione. Her tone of voice clearly stated that she couldn't care less.

"Six days," Miranda said quietly.

Hermione turned her eyes on Miranda, who was a bit unsettled to look into them. "Oh, are we speaking, then? I'm sorry; I didn't hear," Hermione said coolly. Miranda bit her lip.

"What's happened?" asked Mungo gently.

And then Hermione closed her eyes and rocked back a little on her heels, and her mouth got tight-lipped, and her eyebrows tilted, and she looked in pain_._

But when her eyes opened again, all that vanished. "Nothing unexpected," Hermione's voice said quietly, but it was not Hermione behind the words.

Looks were exchanged. Throats were cleared. Then Revelend spoke, and they listened. His quiet, stern voice commanded attention. "Come on, let's go," he said, and he took Hermione's shoulder. She did not object, let him steer her from the room.

McGonagall closed the door. It vanished.

xXxXxXxXx

It was surreal for Hermione. She was sitting in a classroom, surrounded by everyone she'd been acquainted with in this world – except for maybe two people, and those were the people she couldn't even think of seeing without having to clear her mind completely for risk of feeling. Half of these people hadn't even been able to look at her for the last month. Half wouldn't have been caught dead in a room together with the other half for any extended period of time. Yet here they were, all assembled in one room as if they had nothing better to do with their day, all looking – Hermione seemed to have forgotten which emotions looked like what, but she felt like it might have been concern, what was on their faces.

And then Abraxas started speaking, and Hermione felt a sudden rush of remembrance, what it was like to associate with people, what it was like out of self-inflicted solitary confinement.

"Hermione, what happened? And don't you even dare tell me it was nothing, because if you do, I swear to God I'll hit something."

"And that something will probably be me," muttered Herpo. Catalina let out a small splutter of laughter and covered her mouth instantly.

Hermione opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She stared blankly around at all these faces, but she found she was terrified to say anything to any of them, terrified that she might break down completely in front of them. She'd tried to train away her weakness, but Hermione found that she'd just managed to keep it at bay, just like she'd always managed to suppress everything else about her past.

Suddenly she felt tired. Of everything.

"Can one of you go and get Araminta Meliflua, please?" she whispered.

Those were the last words Abraxas had expected to hear. Revelend stood and left, leaving everyone else still looking expectantly at Hermione, but she didn't say anything until Revelend returned ten minutes later. Araminta was walking behind him, looking like she hadn't slept in a week.

"Granger," Araminta said quietly, as the door shut.

Hermione stared at her for a very long moment. "I just... I have to know. You didn't know anything, did you? It was him?"

Araminta nodded slowly. "I'm..." She took a deep breath, and then her face got a stubborn look about it. "I'm sorry, Granger," she said determinedly. "I had no idea what I was doing."

"Don't apologize to me. Merlin knows it's not your fault," Hermione replied. And it wasn't. Everything was his fault. Everything was _always_ his fault... Everything was always his plan_._

Hermione found herself restraining tears. How? How had they come back so easily? It wasn't fair... Not at all. "It's his fault," Hermione continued, her voice trembling. "He used you. Just like he uses everyone_._"

_Including me._

Hermione drew her knees up to her chest, thanking the Lord for Mungo, who was the only one who had the good grace to look away as tears started to stream hotly from her eyes. Miranda gently placed an arm around her, and Hermione leaned into the other girl with only slight reluctance, forgetting that most of these people had abandoned her, smelling that faintly-remembered scent of violets, rediscovering that feeling of having friends.

She opened her mouth and a whimper worked its way out. Emotion flooded its way hotly back into her chest. Feeling that had been postponed for six long, cold days. "Thank you all," she sobbed, and her helpless sniffling continued through her next words. "You don't know... how much this means."

Abraxas turned to Araminta as Miranda and Catalina huddled with Hermione, shushing her gently, holding her as they would hold a child in distress. Abraxas steered Araminta to the side and said, "What did he do?"

Araminta looked absolutely stricken. "He... he came up to me and said he missed me. I knew there was something wrong, Abraxas – I _knew_ there was something wrong with the whole thing, but – he kissed me, and I couldn't – don't judge me, I didn't -"

"I'm not judging you," said Abraxas. "When Tom Riddle wants something, he gets it. It's not your fault." He placed a hand gently on Araminta's shoulder. "Go on?"

She swallowed. "And he took me up to the Head Boy and Head Girl rooms, but he said his room was messy so we shouldn't go in, so we went into the Head Girl room instead, and... and, and we got into the bed, and he started kissing me again, and I was so, so happy -"

Araminta broke off and put a hand to her face, sucking in a deep breath through her nose, blinking quickly to ward off that prickling feeling coming to her eyes. She would not let herself cry over this. "And then, after a while, the door opened, and Granger came in," she whispered.

Abraxas nodded, his earnest grey gaze holding hers, giving her strength to continue. "I think she just said, 'Tom', and then his face got so angry... it was scary, Abraxas – I felt so scared for her, and he said, 'Don't call me that, you filthy Mudblood,' and she looked like..." Araminta trailed off. Abraxas looked absolutely horrified. "And then right after he said that, he cast some _spell_ on her, some spell I don't know."

Abraxas licked his lips, shaking himself from his stupor. "Can you remember the incantation?" he asked in a low voice. "Did he say it aloud?"

"It was... something like, like... it started with... the word ledge, or something like it," Araminta said. She seemed to be getting herself back together. Her eyes had a note of resolve in them. "Yes, something like that. And then Granger was on her knees, and Tom was just... lying there, and his eyes looked all funny, like he was seeing something that wasn't there, and Granger was screaming... and I ran away. That's the last I saw."

Abraxas swallowed. The word ledge? He thought for a second – and then he realized. "Legilimens?" he asked. "Was that what he said? Legilimens?"

Araminta nodded, her face clearing. "Yes, that was it. What does it do?"

"It's a mind-reading spell," Abraxas said quietly, and then rage started to fill him. "He wanted information, and that was the only way he could get it out of her." That was all Tom Riddle ever wanted, no matter for the feelings of a Gryffindor girl who had personally nursed him back to health, who had given him everything –

Everything.

Abraxas closed his eyes in disbelief. She had slept with him, too. Just to make things worse. Just to emotionally invest her even more so that when he broke her heart there was no chance she could resist.

Abraxas' eyes narrowed, and he let go of Araminta's shoulder.

"Are you mad at me?" Araminta's high voice asked tentatively. He looked back at her, and his eyes softened a little.

"No one's mad at you," he reassured. "Thank you, Araminta."

Araminta's eyes finally filled with tears. "Don't thank me," she said throatily. "I've been so stupid, just to fall back to him at the slightest little thing."

Then she left the classroom, before he could see her cry.

Abraxas looked back at Hermione, who was a veritable mess. He wondered what she'd been doing for six days, alone in the Room of Requirement, alone with a broken heart. He knew the dangers of being alone with a broken heart, had lived them out in a personal nightmare. Although he'd never had anything like _this_ done to him. Nothing like it. Never.

It struck him again just how dead Riddle seemed, and he wondered what Hermione had said to Riddle after Araminta had left... It must have been bad. Abraxas hoped it had been the worst thing ever said. Riddle deserved nothing less. Riddle deserved to be crushed under Hermione's foot.

Abraxas walked to the sofa where Hermione was sitting, where her friends were consoling her. Godric said, "Hermione, if you'd like, we could hide a firework in his bed or something..."

And then her eyes got cold, and hard_._ Hermione said, "No. The only person who will ever hurt him is me."

Then Abraxas felt a bit scared. She'd changed. And it wasn't a good change, either. There was nothing good about this situation at all.

Godric raised an eyebrow, running a hand through his red hair. "Well, you know, he always shows up for Dueling, if you'd like a place and time."

"I think I might really like that," Hermione said quietly, and that same look was still on her face. No one asked her what had happened. They just understood that Hermione had had her heart broken, and they understood that revenge is sweeter than anything else, especially when it came to a broken heart.

But Abraxas was unsettled. Revenge was not... Hermione. She'd talked about a girl once who had betrayed her and her friends, and how she'd made a hex to disfigure the girl's face. Justice. But violence…

Perhaps, though, in this situation, it was the best possible avenue. Abraxas sighed.

"Shall we all go down to the Kitchens and eat together before Dueling, then?" suggested Catalina Lightfoot.

Hermione felt like she might start crying again. This was what she'd hopelessly prayed for, for so long – that everyone she liked might like each other, might set aside their so-called differences and see that they _weren't_ different_._

She wiped her eyes and smiled weakly, and the smile felt strange on her face, but she stood, her arm in the strong grip of Minerva McGonagall, Miranda's arm around her shoulder, Jared Pippin's hand gentle on her back.

The atmosphere was as jovial as if it were a post-Quidditch-victory party. Herpo and Revelend had a furious flour battle with Miranda and Catalina, although the Slytherin boys seemed to be taking it a lot more seriously than the laughing girls. Abraxas and Godric were getting along famously, as Hermione had always secretly thought they would. Mungo and Jared were being Mungo and Jared, seemingly in their own little world, and Professor McGonagall was sitting calmly with Hermione, quite content just to sit and not to talk. There was no I-told-you-so on the lips of any of her Gryffindor friends, and there was no pity in the eyes of anyone at all. Just a comfort, a hope, a reassurance that she would be all right.

Hermione felt strangely buoyed by the cheer around her. Perhaps she could be coaxed back into normalcy simply by associating with normal people? Well, not _normal_, really. All these people were incredibly talented and intelligent, far beyond normal. But not...

Well, not _him._ And as long as it wasn't _him_, Hermione felt like she might be all right.

xXxXxXxXx

Riddle sat completely alone. He didn't know where Abraxas, Herpo or Revelend were, but they weren't at dinner. There was blank space all around him, and he didn't really find himself caring. If the space to his right had been filled, then he would have been okay. Just one person. That would've made it okay.

_I killed her._

His eyes looked quietly down at his plate, which was empty, and staying that way. He hadn't eaten since lunch the day before, but he honestly didn't feel hungry. He supposed that hunger was just one more thing to tally onto the list of things he didn't seem to be able to feel anymore. Anger had faded after the third day, bitterness after the fourth, misery after the fifth. Riddle felt like he was waiting to feel something, anything at all, and then suddenly he would have some sort of epiphany. But it wasn't coming. Nothing was.

_I killed her._

This wasn't like the last time – he wasn't decomposing. His hair, his clothing, and his appearance were impeccable. Perhaps the only outward physical sign that there was something different was that there were dark circles under his eyes, though Riddle doubted anyone had noticed. He hadn't been sleeping, really, but he hadn't spent his waking hours doing anything. Just warding off the nightmares. The nightmare, really, for it was the same one, over and over. Walking into the Room of Requirement... seeing Hermione jerking and screaming under his wand... realizing that the person who held the wand was his exact body double. No – he couldn't deal with the dream. He just lay there, his eyes open.

_I killed her._

Riddle briefly considered making himself a Sleeping Draught, but he felt like he might get it wrong. It didn't seem important that a Sleeping Draught was third-year Potions material. He still felt as if it would go terribly awry if he tried it. There was no logic to his thoughts these days, and he fully acknowledged it, but he couldn't seem to line anything up in his head. Nothing quick-witted or malicious even dared to make itself known anymore, perhaps because he was so preoccupied with holding the descent into that pit at bay.

_I killed her._

People started leaving. Riddle got up and went back to his room. There were twenty minutes before Dueling started, and though he never did anything, watching duels was about the only thing with variety about his days.

_I killed her._

He sat on his bed, remembering how she had used to _feed_ him. She'd sat there for hour after hour after hour; she'd brought him food; she'd spent herself on his ability to be a normal human being.

_I killed her._

No one else had even noticed him lying dead on the ground. No one else had been willing to do anything at all.

_I killed her._

he's doing just calling it hooking up if you're spending that much time together... Tom Riddle sat on the edge of his bed and looked down at his hands and considered doing something drastic. But in the end he just looked at his clock and watched twenty minutes pass, and then he placed his wand in his pocket gently and left again, the door a quiet click, his feet quiet taps, everything else nothing at all.

_I killed her._

When he reached the Great Hall and walked in, he couldn't see Abraxas, Herpo, or Revelend anywhere. He stood a few feet from Vaisey, Taylor, and Takahashi, waiting for Godric Gryffindor to call things to order. Riddle couldn't see where Gryffindor was, either. That was sort of strange, but then it ceased to be strange, because Riddle glanced over at the door and everything seemed to be strange beyond any previous mention of the word. In through the door walked Abraxas, chatting jovially with Godric Gryffindor. To their right was Catalina Lightfoot, who was smiling brightly at Abraxas, and then Miranda Goshawk and Albus Dumbledore, speaking with Herpo and Revelend rather animatedly. And nestled right in the middle of this group were Minerva McGonagall and Hermione Granger.

_I killed her._

Seeing her again, in the flesh, was more than a shock. It was like the strike of being hit with a curse. It was like looking into the mirror and seeing someone else entirely, like peering into a pool to see one's reflection and instead seeing nothing at all. It was stranger to see her than to see all these people associating with each other as if they'd been lifelong friends.

_I killed her._

But she didn't seem to see him. She didn't look away from McGonagall, anyway, so all Riddle could see was her profile, the left half of her face. Certain parts of her seemed to stick out to Riddle from where he stood across the room - a tiny hint at a smile on her lips, one lock of her hair that strayed over her ear, the very last small curve of her nose, the smooth skin of her neck.

_I killed her._

Godric raised his hand, and the Great Hall doors swung shut. He hopped up onto the dais.

"Do we have any volunteers for the first duel tonight?" he asked.

"Yes," said Hermione's voice, strong, determined. "Is Tom Riddle here?"

There seemed to be a great sweeping whisper across the room – _Hermione Granger is back –_ but as Riddle looked at that odd little group that had walked in together, he saw no surprised faces there. They'd all known she was going to challenge him.

"I'm here," Riddle said, but he said it as quietly as if she were standing right next to him, and no one heard.

Vaisey, Taylor, and Takahashi seemed to have drifted away. Even if he had wanted to refuse Hermione, there was no one who would step up for him, no one to take his place.

Hermione stepped up onto the dais, her eyes still searching. Riddle made his way quietly through the crowd.

She didn't notice him until he was standing there, right in front of her, and then Hermione suddenly felt like this was a mistake.

Looking into his face, looking into those eyes, the eyes she'd come to associate with trust, with soft words, with love – she didn't want to hurt him at all. She just wanted to run to him and give him a second chance, give him a ninth chance, however many he needed –

But then he drew his wand, and looking at that wand, Hermione was jerked back to what he'd _done._ How he'd used a girl who was in love with him to betray another girl in love with him. How he'd burrowed into her mind. How he'd made her relive when he'd killed her.

Hermione drew her own wand. _No mercy._

"Care to have the first move?" she whispered, her eyes locked with his.

He made absolutely no response.

"Fine."

She flicked her wand. _Terinculum Efectiva._

And there, in the air, she drew six small boxes in a loose hexagon shape, sketching in the runes faster than her eyes could track. _Ehwaz. Irwaz. Zhabra. Unam. Nevim. Qirej._

The hexagon glowed yellow, and spun, and spun, and swelled, and then stretched backwards and flung itself at Riddle.

He didn't even lift his wand to defend himself.

The stream of yellow smashed into his chest, tossing him backwards, his body going as limp as if he were a rag doll. Hermione lifted her wand and jerked it forward. His leg followed. Then, limb by limb, she brought him to his knees, and then she released his wand hand from her grip. But he didn't do anything. His wand was held loosely by his curled, unmoving fingers. "Fight back," Hermione murmured, scrutinizing his face. Hers contorted into rage, and she spat, "Fight back, dammit!"

She swung her wand, and he was prostrated on the ground again, cheek to stone, and Hermione sent a curse spinning at him. It hit him, whirling him around, sending him rolling over and over until he was face-up. His eyes were closed, his brow was creased, and his wand was still in his hand.

Hermione shut her eyes. Why was this happening? Why was he making this difficult? Why wouldn't he just try to curse her, let her hate him, let this be the only easy thing about this whole damn thing?

Seconds of silence turned into minutes.

Not a motion from him.

"Expelliarmus," she growled, and his wand flew from his hand and clattered onto the dais.

There was no victory in it. Not in the successful runic spell. Not in climbing down from the stone to a fierce pat on the back from Godric. Not in looking back at Tom Riddle as he carefully stood up, picked up his wand, and descended from the platform.

The silence was vicious. The silence was tangible. Now that Hermione had seen him, she could not tear her eyes from him.

And dear God – how could she miss him? How could that be what she was feeling? How was this _possible_? Why were the only memories right now the ones of him kissing her gently, the ones of him comforting her, the ones of him holding her like she was a _blessing?_ After all she'd gone through, how could her heart be doing this to her? It wasn't right. She should have felt disgust. She should have felt – at the very _ least – _utter hatred. She shouldn't have wanted him to tell her he was there for her, no matter what anyone else might do.

She shouldn't have wanted to feel that utter safety she'd used to have. After all, hadn't that been the biggest lie of all? That she might be _safe _around Tom Riddle, Jr.? That he might do something for someone other than himself?

The human heart was inexplicable.

If this was the way she had to learn it... then she thought she might need to study for a while longer.

xXxXxXxXx

Riddle's eyes were locked with hers, and he could have sworn that behind her eyes was something other than the desire to rend him limb from limb. He couldn't look away from her, and she didn't seem to be able to look away from him, either.

So she'd been able to master Runic Spells, apparently, as she didn't even seem like she was weakened at all by what she'd done, which was to remove every ounce of control from his body. And during that spell, when she'd had all the control, when she'd had all the power – Riddle had felt utterly freed. Freed from the responsibility of being himself, of being anything at all besides alive.

Everything he'd ever done of his own volition had been absolutely wrong, after all. Wouldn't it be better if he had no choice in what to do with himself?

He'd never believed in God. Now, though – God was a comforting concept. Still more comforting was the notion of fate. If he'd never had a choice... that was the only way it would ever be acceptable in his mind, now. Surely that part of him that had thought it was acceptable to do that to her... surely that part of him had been sent by some sort of dark deity, had been placed in him against his will, had been sent to him for whatever reason that God had for wanting to break Hermione Granger's heart.

xXxXxXxXx

Hermione yawned, walking back to the Gryffindor common room with Albus, Professor McGonagall, Miranda, and Godric. Professor McGonagall's arm was around her shoulder protectively – of course she would feel protective, Hermione mused; it was like a posthumous attempt at her safety.

How long had it been since she'd sat in that warm common room? She looked around with utter fondness at every rug, every red seat, the blazing hearth.

Then Godric gave her a strong goodnight hug, and Albus, next, and she was walking up the stairs to her dormitory, where it seemed she would always return – and the feeling that flooded her as she walked in was relief. Pure relief.

Yet when the lights turned out, and Hermione closed her eyes, she couldn't get his _face_ out of her head_._ No matter what she tried. No matter which memories she tried to pick. It was his face, and he looked like a teenage boy in love.

Appearances were so deceptive.

Hermione's arms curled around her pillow, and the bed suddenly felt empty. Hermione frowned into her pillow... she couldn't take him back. She couldn't be that weak.

Could she?

She'd done it once in the past, though that had been back when they'd only just started to be able to call each other friends...

The thought of the word curled and writhed in Hermione. _Friends_. She had friends, but he – he had nothing. He had been standing there so utterly alone, friendless, having pushed absolutely everyone away.

She hoped he was happy with what he'd gotten. She hoped it had felt like a good trade for him. Her heart in exchange for knowing he'd murdered her. Everyone around him in exchange for the knowledge that he'd tortured and killed a teenage girl.

She hoped it'd been worth it.

Hermione fell asleep.


	28. Chapter 28

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* * *

She was back.

Hermione may have been tired, exhausted, utterly spent, from having revived every part of her emotional spectrum – but she was back. She could hold a conversation again. She could laugh again. She was herself.

The same didn't seem to be true for Tom Riddle. Hermione had moved back to the Gryffindor table, but Abraxas, Herpo and Revelend still sat at the Slytherin table, of course, with Riddle – although he wasn't present at lunch that day in particular – and he still didn't really seem to be... a person.

It was an odd way to put it, sure, but Hermione hadn't yet seen a single bit of _anything_ make its way onto his face, into his eyes – nothing. He was an empty page, a blank slate. She wondered if he'd accidentally Obliviated himself. Then she wondered if he'd Obliviated himself on purpose, so that he didn't have to know the ugly truth. Then Hermione cursed inwardly for wondering about him in the first place.

She didn't understand herself. It had always been inherent curiosity which had drawn her back to Riddle – and that was gone, now. She knew everything about him, knew every last tiny evil fiber of him, had relived most of his life through his eyes. What exactly was it, now, that remained? What was it that made her want to trail back to him? _What was it_ that refused to listen to every single logical part of her?

A weird part of Hermione felt like he wouldn't have spent that much time just to find out a simple piece of information. That same part of her _screamed_ that he wouldn't have let her see his past if he didn't trust her.

Hermione suddenly remembered sitting on his bed, hefting Albus' Runic Spells book, looking down at his wounded body as he said, "I trust you," with only a bit of unease. The first time he'd ever said that to her. Hermione shut her eyes as she remembered trusting him, too, with every bit of herself, with every part of herself. That conversation with Abraxas. _If I didn't know he loved me, I'd be scared for myself._

If I didn't know he loved me.

Uneasy doubt poured through Hermione's mind. There was no way for him to have fabricated his _memories_ of her. She hadn't even thought about that – the memories... all of her, of her face, of them together, of her healing him – everything sitting right there at the forefront of his mind.

_She's too good for you,_ that voice in his head had said – that familiar voice.

And he'd known it.

But if he had meant it when he'd said he loved her... how could he have hurt her like that?

Absurdly, an old Muggle adage swam through Hermione's mind – if you want to make an omelet, you're going to have to break a couple of eggs. But there had been hardly any proverbial omelet to be gained, and the proverbial eggshell would have had to be peppered with explosives. Surely his mind could have seen that the costs would far outweigh the benefits.

Hermione tried to see how it could possibly make sense in his head – and then she stopped herself with a sharp shake of her head. It was not her duty to figure out his reasoning. It was not her job to be his retrospective moral compass. She was not obliged to do anything for him. Not anymore.

Well, that was stupid. She'd never been obliged to do anything for him in the first place, and that was what had set her apart, really, wasn't it? Her desire to help him.

Not a single person with whom she'd spoken about it had suggested that she forgive him. Godric, McGonagall, and Revelend had all been a flat "No." Herpo and Miranda had both looked a bit uneasy and in essence had told her that they didn't think they could ever find it in themselves. Albus had fixed her with his blue eyes and said, "There are wrongs that cannot be righted even by the strongest of hearts."

She hadn't asked Abraxas, yet, though.

The great scraping and clattering began as students started to stream out of the Great Hall. "Hey, Abraxas," she panted, hurrying after his broad back into the snow, which, to Melia's credit, was almost done melting. "I have a question."

"Yeah?" he said, turning to face her.

"Do you think I should forgive Riddle?"

There was a pause, and Hermione was shocked to see Abraxas smile, his eyes growing warm. "Yeah," he said. "If you can't, it's entirely understandable, but I think you should try."

Hermione swallowed. She felt like she'd been waiting to hear the words from someone.

"But why?"

He shrugged, looking up into the white, wintry sky. The clouds reflected in his grey eyes. "To err is human. To forgive is divine," he said, and Hermione stared. That was a Muggle quote. How the hell did _Abraxas Malfoy_ know a Muggle quote? Especially one like _that_? He continued, though. "I don't mean to say you need to tell Riddle you forgive him, or validate him somehow. You just need to find it in yourself, and whatever way you manage to do that – I think it would be good for you. No matter how impossible it seems."

That was true. It seemed to be an insurmountable barrier. To put behind her everything that went along with a broken heart? To put behind her every bit of deception he'd managed to exact upon her? Hermione didn't know if she could do that, but a part of her heart cried the truth of Abraxas' words.

She smiled. "Abraxas, you're the best," she said quietly, and she turned and walked away, leaving him looking a little shaken at the words for some reason.

Abraxas stared after her. Those same words that Riddle had said after he'd told him Hermione loved him. The unsure Riddle. The weak Riddle. The Riddle that reminded Abraxas so much of himself it was painful to consider.

Abraxas swallowed, shook his head, and started walking down to Hogsmeade. He had told Catalina he'd meet her there, after all, and he didn't want to be late.

xXxXxXxXx

Tom Riddle rolled out of bed, unsurprised to see he'd slept through lunch. Now that he'd finally started sleeping again, it seemed to be all he could do. It was far better – he felt all right, now that he was sleeping. Felt like a regular human being, or as much so as he'd let himself feel like anything. That unknown pit still gaped beneath him, praying for him to slip up, to think a little too hard about Hermione Granger. And he would not oblige it.

He glanced over to the stack of books on his desk. He had read all but the last two on the bottom, although he couldn't remember taking that bottom one out of the library, for some reason. But he'd deal with that when he got there.

That was what he kept telling himself. _I'll deal with that when I get there._ He went from planning everything to planning nothing at all. Nothing made its way to his mind as anything more than surface value anymore. If someone smiled, they were happy. If someone laughed, then something was funny. If someone asked someone else something, then they were looking for an answer to their question and nothing else. The world had no more ulterior motive to Tom Riddle. Nothing really seemed to, now that he himself had none.

The books weren't from the Restricted Section. He hadn't felt like it, for some reason. In fact, he'd picked the blandest of the bland.

He pulled out the second-to-last in the stack and hefted it in his hand. Magical Creatures of Great Britain and their Evolutionary Origins. Hardly light reading.

Light reading. Hermione had used to use that phrase for any reading at all, no matter what it was.

Riddle blinked and sat down on the sofa. His feet were perfectly together. His back was ramrod-straight. His hands were perfectly symmetrical on the sides of the book. He turned to page one.

xXxXxXxXx

Hermione spent a contented afternoon in the Gryffindor common room, watching Miranda soundly thrash Godric at Wizard's Chess – a barbaric game, to be sure, but watching Godric Gryffindor lose a match definitely had its comedic merits. The main effect was that he turned as red as the Hogwarts Express – and Hermione was surprised he didn't whistle, too, or have smoke come out of his ears, like the train itself.

McGonagall was giving a bit of a Transfiguration lesson to the tall blond boy who had announced her arrival. Albus napped in his favorite red chair, his chin resting on his chest peacefully. Hermione was, for the first time in a while, rereading her notes on Drew Caeziten's pages on thread theory. She'd forgotten how absolutely correct he was about everything.

She sighed as she flipped through the original source again. The words were so familiar... she'd read them enough times for them to be more than familiar, of course.

_And if one should pray they might re-ascend into the realms of the living, then they may increase their hold on life by, perhaps, an augmentation of the strength of what has kept them from Death in the primary instance of their deceased nature; by perhaps a demonstration of that which is the ultimate evil; by perhaps a demonstration of that which is the ultimate good. And should they fail in a manner dire to the soul, then shall they remain caught forever in-between, in these grayed shades of the not-yet-dead and never-to-be-so._

To be caught here... forever.

What a horrible thought. To be going nowhere for _eternity._ Then again, that would only apply if one really deserved it, right? Like, for instance, if one ripped their soul eight times.

How could Hermione wish that on anyone, though? No one deserved an eternity of _anything_. The fact about existence was that it was ever-changing; that was the only reason it was tolerable, after all.

It would be especially intolerable if one didn't know anything about the joys of life, Hermione mused. If they knew nothing of peace, of friendship, of happiness, of love... If they just couldn't seem to _get_ it, not after hours and days and weeks, not even after saying the words 'I love you', not even then? Then existence would be miserable indeed.

Especially alone.

Hermione closed her eyes and rubbed them. She wondered if there were a way she could surgically remove Tom Riddle from her mind.

She sunk down a little lower into the sofa and considered Abraxas' words. When would she know for sure if she'd forgiven him? Her rage had subsided, but the hurt hadn't gone away.

But forgiveness didn't mean feeling fine. Forgiveness meant being able to face that pain, to look it in the eye and say _I blame no one for your presence in my heart._

Could she really blame him? She was the one who had first broken the promise, after all...

Well, yes, she could blame him. All that curiosity she'd had for so long – she would never have done something like that to get information out of him.

That was all he'd ever _known_, though. How to extort, lie, cheat, and manipulate. Could she really have expected him to change, just for her, in a matter of a couple months?

No. She couldn't have expected it, and she shouldn't have, but she had anyway. She'd thought, when he murmured _I love you_ into her ear, that he understood what he was saying, that he understood that love meant being willing to do anything for her. That he understood love meant putting _everything_ aside for her – meant putting himself aside for her. She'd thought he would have done anything for her, just as she would have done anything for him.

Hermione bit her tongue, bit her cheek, bit back those tears furiously. And now – even now – he hadn't apologized. Even now, he was making this all about him, retreating into this state of utter blankness that left Hermione wondering what the hell was wrong with him, what the hell he was doing.

_And, yet again, I've managed to make this all about me._

_That's just a part of being around you._

Even when she _wasn't_ around him... and even when she desperately, unfairly, completely wished she were.

xXxXxXxXx

Riddle put down the book, looking out at the sunset. Dinner was probably ready. Abraxas had said something about a date with some girl, though, so perhaps he wouldn't be returning for dinner. That prospect was not good, for Revelend and Herpo would doubtless be completely silent and awkward without someone to loosen them up.

Well, then, he would bring a book.

He'd almost finished Magical Creatures, though. Riddle toiled through the last creature of all, which had merited only a brief paragraph:

_The origins of Thestrals have, as of yet, remained undiscovered. It appears as if these beasts sprang from the ether, and they never return whence they came, living beyond time's constraints, perhaps not living at all. Expert Alexander Wilheim says on the subject, "The Thestral is a beast composed of mystery; searching for its evolutionary origins is as fruitless as searching for the origins of atoms, nothingness, or magic."_

Riddle set it on top of the stack, leaned down, and managed to squeeze the bottom book out into his pocket, the pile teetering dangerously.

He walked down to the Great Hall, and with immense relief, he saw that Abraxas was in fact there, looking even happier than usual. Probably a side effect of whatever date he'd gone on. Riddle sat down and stuck his hand in his pocket – well, he wouldn't need this book, then, because Abraxas would likely be recounting the day with great animation during dinner. Riddle sat down and pulled the book out, just to refresh his memory as to what it was.

He dropped it. It hit the ground with a loud 'thud'. Abraxas looked up at him, surprise in his grey eyes.

There, from the ground, those three words glared up at him like an accusation. The Divine Comedy. He'd never finished reading it, like he'd said he would. He'd never even finished The Inferno, though that was likely because he hadn't wanted to read through the eighth and ninth circles because –

Riddle swallowed, and his eyes got very wide as he looked down at the book. He reached out for it with a nerveless hand and put it back in his pocket, and then he stared at his plate, a huge lump in his throat.

_Betrayal of their benefactors. Supposedly the worst sin of all._

Even a _Muggle_ had known it.

Riddle's eyes snapped shut, and felt himself completely losing control. He gripped the edge of the table with one hand, gripped the bench with his other, and his heart sped up. _What did I do?_

His face contorted into agony, and he swayed a little. _What did I _do_?_

His lips parted slightly, and he breathed through his mouth, and he slid into that pit – that huge pit that had been calling for weeks. A deep, soulful pain roared into existence right behind his ribcage, as if his heart would freeze up and crack in two, and Riddle gritted his teeth against it. His eyes opened again, and they were instantly drawn to her.

She was looking at him.

As his eyes stared into hers, a memory burst into his mind, crystal-clear –

_He stared at his dark green bedcurtains, stared at them like some secret was hidden in their folds. "How am I supposed to know when it happens?"_

_ Hermione bit her lip. "You'll know," she said. "If it's remorse... you'll know."_

And he knew.

Riddle got to his feet, his head spinning, the ache within him not subsiding, resonating through every tiny part of him. He didn't know what he was doing, but he was walking over to her, and he was stopping in front of her.

And then he found he had nothing – and everything – to say.

xXxXxXxXx

Hermione was frozen rigid to her seat. He looked like he was hurt, as his eyes met hers. She couldn't look away. He was staring at her as he'd never stared before. Those dark eyes were unusually clear – and then he was standing.

_What is he doing –_

Walking to her.

_What is he _doing_?_

Stopping right next to her.

All activity within a few feet had ceased. Miranda and Catalina were wide-eyed; Godric flabbergasted. Albus looked as if he had smelled something bad. McGonagall's lips were pursed so thin they practically disappeared and she was as stiff as a board.

Hermione herself? Hermione couldn't imagine what she looked like right now. She felt like she was about to hyperventilate. She was still staring straight ahead, though he was in her peripherals, right there _right there –_

Then something inside of her swelled in courage. Hermione turned a little, said, "Yes?", and looked up into his face, which was a grave error, because on his handsome face was an expression as pained as any she'd ever seen. It was as if some giant gong had been struck within her, sending waves of echoing feeling through her body. He was so close. She could have reached out and touched him... touched him again... could have stood up and kissed him; it was so strange that it was physically possible for her to do that –

He opened his mouth a little, but he didn't seem to be able to make words come out. Maybe his voice had vanished from disuse.

"You told me I'd know when it happened," he worked out, his voice little more than a whisper, but Hermione heard it as clearly as if his lips were murmuring into her ear. "It's happening."

And then he fell to his knees right there, his hands clutching at his head, his eyes squeezed tight shut. Hermione made a violent, involuntary motion, as if to fall to his side, as if to comfort him and tell him everything would be fine – but her mind was stuck on his words.

When _what_ happened?

The pieces fell together in her mind. That expression – the expression R.J. had had when he was talking about what he'd done. The hollow expression, the expression that _wanted_... wanted things to be different. Wanted things to have changed. Wanted something never to have happened.

"God," she whispered.

Tom Riddle felt remorse.

It wracked every inch of his body, and as he locked his eyes shut it was like an image was projecting itself harsh onto the backs of his eyelids. Like a diamond piecing itself back together, every facet glimmering in a sea of black. Like a pathetically frayed knot reweaving itself. Gold and silver and glowing with a harsh light he could not ignore, and once that shimmering, healing, painful light subsided?

He _felt_.

It a tidal wave. Everything he'd missed, everything he'd only shallowly managed to simulate with his soul in that state – it inundated him completely. Pain and joy side-by-side with guilt and pride and misery and care and jealousy and nostalgia and _love..._ and above all, the driving force of the wave, the _remorse remorse remorse _barreling into him over and over and _over_ with everything it had. Riddle's hands clutched his knees, his eyes still closed, his head pounding as if his skull were hammer-smashed –

When he opened his eyes again, he seemed to _notice_ everything more than he ever had before. The light clinks of forks hitting plates. The delicate smells mixing together. The way the shimmer of the other world lent a strange, ephemeral almost-glow to everything around him.

And he cared.

Gone was the apathy. His mind was back, and it was reeling, and his eyes found Hermione again and did not let go.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, and truer words had never been spoken. "I'm so sorry for everything I've done to you."

Hermione's fingers were gripping her thighs so hard that when she let go she felt her legs might fall off.

His soul?

Was it whole again? There had been a fleeting glow, right in the center of his chest – did that mean that Tom Riddle's soul had healed itself?

He was human again. He was _real_.

Hermione was hardly used to letting go of grudges, to letting go of resentment. Why, then, did she suddenly feel like she was floating? Why did she feel like she was _relieved_ that his soul was healed? Why had every drop of malice drained away?

He stood up, his eyes an anguished plea for a response. Hermione was on her feet, somehow, too, and she suddenly felt that the words weren't even a strain from her lips, and she didn't know how or why that was, but everything was gone in the moment of this revelation –

"I forgive you."

And then – a frantic _tug_ inside her, and Hermione swore she wasn't imagining a thing. It was like – it was like something inside was fighting its way to the top of her, as if she were being tugged to the tips of her toes by this grip in the center of her chest.

Tom Riddle, Jr. felt it too. He finally acknowledged that pull, the pull that he'd felt since right after the event, although for the life of him he couldn't figure out what it was.

Her eyes were wide. "Do you feel it?" she murmured, and his dark eyes fixed on her like they wouldn't ever let her out of his sight. Quite a few people were looking, now, but Hermione found she couldn't care less. He nodded, and a lock of his hair fell from its place and settled over his eye, but he made no move to right it.

Then Tom Riddle knew what to do. "Come on."

Hermione nodded. She turned and kissed Catalina and Miranda on each of their cheeks, slowly, tenderly. Godric stood up. "What are you doing? Where are you going?"

Hermione wrapped him in a hug. "I'll miss you."

Albus leaned across the table, his blue eyes fixed on her, and Hermione pressed her arms around his thin body, closing her eyes, letting him go, finally.

Hermione looked at McGonagall and smiled a bit wistfully. Hermione said, "I'll see you soon."

Abraxas had hurried over, dragging Herpo and Revelend behind him. "Goodbye," said Hermione, looking at their familiar faces, emotion building in her. "I – goodbye." Abraxas' hug was almost desperate, and Hermione whispered, "Thank you so much for everything." Tearing her eyes from his big, familiar face was painful. She kissed Herpo and Revelend on the cheek, and they turned twin shades of crimson.

Mungo and Jared were not in the Great Hall. Hermione said to Abraxas, "Tell our healers not to be afraid of who they are." She swallowed and turned, her eyes sweeping over everyone there. "I love you all, very much."

Tom Riddle looked around at them all and gave a stiff nod. Then he walked out of the Great Hall, and Hermione followed, feeling like she was floating a few inches off the ground, the pull was so strong, and they made their way out of the doors. The sunset was deep red, and the last traces of snow were gone from the emerald grass. Hermione breathed in deep as Tom looked back. There was breathless comprehension in his face as they walked into the forest.

It was as if there had been some sort of prior understanding, for there, barely ten feet into the woods, stood two Thestrals.

Hermione took a breath, reached out a hand, and touched the head of the nearest one. Its eyes held hers as she walked to its side. "What do we do, Tom?"

He climbed atop one, she the other.

Riddle's wand pressed to the beast's temple. _From the ether._

"Avada Kedavra," he whispered. Then he aimed his wand at Hermione's steed and did the same.

Hermione felt something rock her to her core. The Thestrals opened their mouths and screamed with the sound of ripping metal, the glossy hair shredding itself away, their skin tugging taut to their skeletons. Their eyes misted over in death, cloudy and white. Then the creatures spread their decaying wings and kicked off from the ground, falling simultaneously, rising and toppling and tearing through the air –

It was as if the world had died. Everything had gone dark. Everything, black, except for the gray shadows of the Thestrals and their riders, and it _hurt_, getting pulled up through the inky darkness – a throbbing pain in her chest –

Hermione felt the ache intensify in her chest, and she knew what was happening.

_By perhaps a demonstration of that which is the ultimate evil; by perhaps a demonstration of that which is the ultimate good._ And the ultimate evil had been the betrayal, and the ultimate good had been the forgiveness of that evil. All they'd needed was the catalyst.

Hermione's eyes locked with Tom's. How had he known about the Thestrals? Could he be sure? Would they be trapped in this blackness for eternity?

She swallowed, her heart beating fast, and she scrutinized the familiar contours of Riddle's face. It struck her for the first time that she wanted him there, wanted him to be across from her, wanted him to be present now that she was utterly terrified. "I'm scared," she whispered, and it echoed as if they were in a vast marble chamber.

"Don't be," he replied. "It's all right."

Hermione closed her eyes, then, and that tugging feeling inside her grew and grew until she thought she would _burst_ from it.

And then she was falling, head over toe, and landing quite painfully on grass, and she opened her eyes, and Tom Riddle was next to her. His face was the first thing she saw, and it was different.

There were shadows on his face. Harsh shadows. She could see a hint at a wrinkle beside his left eye, and it looked like there was a faint scratch on his cheek. Everything was clear, clear as it hadn't been for months and months, clear and detailed and gritty and _real – _no shimmer; no shine.

Hermione looked around. The moon was a little less than half-full, clouds scudding across its milky face. The lake, right in front of them, was black and rippled in the sharp breeze. The banks were muddy. The reeds were bent. Everything was imperfect, and in being so, absolutely perfect.

Her eyes slowly made their way down the bank, slowly made their way across the lake – and there was a shimmering, crackling wall of energy on the other side. It continued all the way around the Forbidden Forest, all the way around the castle. Everything walled in.

Fear hit Hermione like the thunder that suddenly crashed above them. They were back.

She was alive again.

Hermione swallowed. She was _alive._ She had been hit by Lord Voldemort's curse, and because of two well-kept secrets, a ward, an Answer book, and the ability to forgive, she was _alive. _It seemed ludicrous.

"Are we..." Tom started, his voice low. That had changed too. No longer smooth, sweet, and perfect – but dark, rough at the edges, with the timbre of a real human being.

"We're on earth," Hermione whispered, looking back at him in the night, his pale face filled with disbelief, his eyes drinking in the surroundings.

"You're back," he replied, turning his head and staring at her. "You're back where you should be."

Hermione swallowed. "And you have a second chance."

A muscle tightened in his jaw. She realized the double meaning of her words, but she didn't rectify them, for both meanings were true. Hermione stared into his dark liquid eyes, unreadable in the darkness, and cursed herself for wanting him pressed tight to her, wanting him to be as close as he'd been before. She cursed herself for putting the state of his soul above her feelings, cursed herself for somehow not being filled with anger, or hurt, or even misery. She cursed everything about this situation, sitting in silence, just looking at him and not believing she hadn't been so close in a week.

He said, "I... can I kiss you?"

She didn't answer. She just placed her hands on his chest and pressed her lips to his, and she felt warm human blood pulsing through her living veins and her _heart_ – well, it felt like it would _rupture._

"I'm so sorry," he murmured onto her lips. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"Good," she replied fiercely, and pushed him onto the ground –

Hermione didn't realize how much she'd missed _rain._

It started to pour down, soaking the ground, soaking Hermione's hair, and she felt like electricity was jumping from her wet lips to his. "I still love you," he whispered. "I swear to God I do."

Hermione bit her lip, moving back from him slightly, tears fighting their way to the surface. "I love you, too," she said, and it was true. She'd never stopped loving him. In fact, her every effort to do so had been so fruitless that she'd ignored it instead, shoving her feelings under the shallow sea of anger.

The look on his face.

Riddle grabbed her shoulders and kissed her, the rain trickling down his neck, thundering into the lake. He couldn't have dared to hope for it. But then – hadn't she told him? – _hope is all we have._

He'd never kissed anyone like he was kissing her now. This couldn't be real. This was... this was _enlivening_. This was life as he'd never lived it. The person in his arms was shivering with cold, and he _cared_ about her. He wanted her to be warm, and happy, and he wanted her to have everything she ever wanted and if he'd had it he would have given it to her. He'd never felt this in his life, never had the opportunity to feel this in his life. By the time he'd reached Hogwarts, he had already been alone, had already been broken and healed in a twisted form.

Tom Riddle felt like he was jealous of himself, felt like there was no way he could be this lucky, felt almost resentful that she could come back to him when he'd wronged her like that – even though he was pretty sure he'd never wanted anything more than he wanted her right now.

_And Tom Riddle,_ he thought, _always gets what he wants._

That bubbling desire to smile built up in him again, and a grin broke out on his face, there, in the crashing rain, as he stood her up, as he kissed her again and again and again.

To top it all off?

_He had a full life in front of him._

His horcruxes had done their work after all, for he was here again, young, new, fresh,_ alive._ He'd been born in the 1920s. And he was eighteen, and it was the turn of the century.

Victory felt like howling its way out of him. How could this be fair? How could he have gotten everything he wanted even after everything that had happened? How could fate deal him these cards?

He opened his eyes and looked down at Hermione.

It was fair, because through his actions, she'd come back. She was where she needed to be. She was where she should have been all along. He'd taken her life, and, somehow, he'd helped her get it back.

Her arms slid around him, and he didn't think he'd ever held her tighter, or kissed her more wildly, or had more feeling thudding in his chest. Tom Riddle had never been so out of control, and never had he felt _better._ He stroked back her wet hair with shaking fingers, pressing his lips to her forehead, and cradled her in an embrace again. This was better than any satisfaction he'd ever gleaned from things falling into place as he planned them. He hadn't planned any of this. He hadn't even considered any of this ever being an option, hadn't considered that she might forgive him, hadn't considered that he might ever kiss her again or hold her again or get to tell her that he loved her. Let alone life. Let alone being back on earth.

She stepped back from him. "I love you," she said, her voice quieted by the rain. "And it's so unfair for me to love you, but I do."

"I know," he murmured, his voice shaking a little.

"You broke my heart."

"It'll heal. If I have to fix it myself."

"You called me a Mudblood."

His jaw set, and his eyes burned. "I swear to Salazar Slytherin that I will never. Never again_. _And neither will anyone else."

"You killed me."

Riddle leaned down and kissed her on the cheek, and then put his lips by her ear, where they felt like they were supposed to be, where they felt like they had always been supposed to be, where they felt like they were supposed to remain, reassuring her, telling her – "Yet here you are."

They kissed again. They kissed, and kissed, and kissed, and only when thunder crashed overhead so loudly that Hermione felt like God was angry did they stop. And then she realized.

"Everyone," she breathed.

His hands were resting on her waist, his eyes on hers. "What?" he said.

"Everyone I know is in that castle," Hermione whispered. "Oh, God. Tom – we have to get up there. We have to get up there _right now._"

"Wait a second," he said, and took out his wand. He Disillusioned them both.

Hermione stared at his wand.

There were two, now, in this world, that were exactly the same. Ollivander had only ever made one, yet here was one, and elsewhere, somewhere up in that dark castle, sat another. There were two Tom Riddle Juniors. There were two hypothetical Lord Voldemorts – but one loved her, and the other knew nothing of love.

His hand gripped hers, and they hurried over the grounds, fear creeping back into her body again, tense, shaking fear, like she hadn't felt in so long.

This was her worst nightmare. This was her greatest fear.

But yet – yet in there were her friends. Everyone she _loved_. And at that thought, such hope grew in her that she thought she might fly. Separated by stone walls, nothing more. No longer separated by life or death. No longer separated by an entire world. No more subconsciously counting the days since she'd been on earth. She was _here._

And Tom Riddle's hand was warm in hers, and she felt that safe feeling settle all around her. She was safe. He would keep her _safe._

They hurried around the side of the castle. One of the side doors was slightly ajar, which made Hermione intensely nervous. The only reason the door might be open would be if there was absolutely no chance someone might escape through that door – unless it had been blasted open during a battle, which didn't seem entirely unlikely, Hermione supposed. But then again, it had been impossible to open or break any of the windows – why would the doors be any different? Even if there were only about five doors out of the castle...

But then – those huge chains on the Main Entrance, similar ones on the Great Hall. Perhaps the wards that were sealing the castle shut weakened around doors, and they hadn't reinforced this one as well... Hermione felt cold dread seeping through her body as she surveyed the dark crack. Who could be hiding behind that door? Anyone...

Riddle flicked his wand, and the door swung open gently.

"The door just opened," said a sharp voice from inside, and Hermione drew in a sharp breath, pressing herself against the wall.

"Anyone there?" asked another voice, a low voice.

"Doesn't look like it. Probably the wind; it's raining hard," said a third, and Hermione shut her eyes. How many Death Eaters were inthere? How on Earth were they going to get by?

Tom's hand tightened around hers. He whispered, "Stay close to me," and then before she could do a thing he had moved in front of the gaping doorway and cast a spell inside, a spell that suddenly made the previously-torch-lit room thick with impenetrable darkness. Without a glance back, Hermione and Tom hurried inside. There was a lot of noise – there had to be at least five Death Eaters in there; this was probably their den or something. Several of them were shouting, all at once, which masked the silent pair's passage.

Spells whizzed through the air, and Hermione crouched down a little, cold fear flooding her. The darkness was broken only by Tom's back, right in front of her. He had his hand out, searching for the door, which had been directly opposite them as they'd entered –

Just as he put his hand on the wooden door, the darkness vanished. Hermione cursed inwardly. Due to the Disillusionment, the Death Eaters – there were seven of them – didn't seem to have noticed them, but that wouldn't last long on such very close quarters. They hadn't opened the door yet, either, of all the foul luck –

An idea streamed through Hermione's mind. There was a runic spell, a very simple one, that would probably give them about ten seconds.

"When they move, get the door," she breathed to Riddle, so quiet she could hardly hear it herself. He gave a tiny nod, and Hermione traced two boxes into the air – _Terinculum Efectiva – _and used _Flagrate_ to scratch in the runes just as one of the Death Eaters turned and seemed to realize that there was fiery blue writing hovering in midair – _Cewaz Sizhu._

The two boxes spun around and around, forming a blue-white disk in mid-air, and then vanished completely. Immediately, blue pinpricks of light appeared above every Death Eater, and they were all thrown head-over-heel into ungraceful piles on the ground. Riddle yanked on the door, and they sprinted through, slamming the door shut with a resounding _bang_ behind them.

They sprinted around the first corner, and emerged into a long hallway, empty, lit only by the moon and occasional bursts of lightning. "Keep close to the wall and the ground," Hermione breathed, afraid to make any noise at all, even though she was sure every Death Eater within a mile would be able to hear her heart banging in her chest, sure all those Death Eaters back in that room were chasing them right now. Adrenaline pumped viciously through her veins, making her shake, and she crouched down by the wall and started to crawl. Riddle followed her.

"Where do we go?" he whispered.

"Gryffindor common room," she murmured back. Harry. If Harry was safe, then there was hope. Harry _was_ hope.

She felt like she should be questioning Riddle right now, felt like she should be questioning why she felt like she would trust him with her life – why she already _had_ trusted him with her life. Then again, right at that second, Tom Riddle was the only thing that was sure in the world, and somehow she _knew _– she _knew_ that he loved her.


	29. Chapter 29

**The-Konoha-Shadow, Olivia, bingbing196, DinoBunny, f4vivian, Ishkie, Ilinox, cooopercrisp, Lexy-L-Strange, emobabygirl101, VeniVidiVici92, cece1090, Galavantian, Pasht, Ember Nickel, Katieeee, Magtaria, secret, whenthesnowmelts, xPaintedxRedx, OfCakeAndIceCream, ber1719, vepo6, slayerb8, Anna on the Horizon, Mystikowl86, aquila333, Proudly Weird, Adrenaline Junkie In Da House, sejohnson, Rose With Love, Bellas Decathexis, magentasouth, ChaosHasCome, Blue Buttercup, Risottonocheese, sweetgal3, BethanyTheresa, Anna, sweet-tang-honney, Jen, A. Ymous, XxXxLOVExXxX, TigerWolf, looksponge, bwahahaha XD, MissImpossible, CorpseBox, Agent Twinkle Toes, AudioIrrelevance, Wisawaffle, NougatEvolution (oh how psychic you are, as usual), MizDisguise, november21, Jessi, alrauna, Bloombright, The Lady Massacre, lekass, Caitlynism, Valkarie, MrsMargeryLovett, Lady Phoenix aka Chrissy, loupyloupowell, and chrissytingting.**

**That's my list of people I need to send chocolate. Thanks ever so for your kind words, your comments, and your questions.**

**Getting back into the swing of almost-death,**

**Speechwriter.**

* * *

Hermione was thrown back by the blast of the spell, even as she flung herself out of its way. "I know you're there," said the sing-song voice of Lucius Malfoy. "Crucio."

Hermione threw herself flat on the ground, and the curse whistled over her. Something caught in her throat as she heard the spell strike something – some_one._

Riddle _yelled._

"So you're a boy, are you?" said Malfoy, even as his Cruciatus Curse was connected to Tom, who was screaming so loudly that it made a whimper come from Hermione's throat. "I wonder who it could -"

Then Hermione jerked back to life, yanked her wand from her pocket, and slashedit through the air. The curse exploded. Lucius Malfoy flew three feet into the air and hit the ground with a thud. When he got back to his feet, blood was dripping from under his mask. "So there are two of you," he growled, "and you are both in great trouble right now."

He lifted his wand. A jet of green light flew through the air, and Hermione dove to the side, her eyes desperately searching for Tom – _where is he_ –

And then Malfoy toppled, screaming. Hermione saw a dim outline of the Disillusioned Riddle get to his feet, holding out a wand. Tom held the curse for what seemed like a year, and then, when it was done, Hermione sent _Petrificus Totalus_ at Malfoy, and his arms and legs snapped together. His mask was still firmly in place, but Riddle leaned down and waved his wand over it, and it dissipated.

"I shall remember you," said Tom, and his voice was painful to listen to, icy and terrifying. Lucius' eyes got absolutely horrified. Of course – Tom sounded like _him_, like Lord Voldemort –

Hermione took Riddle's arm, and they fled down the hallway. "Lucius Malfoy. Abraxas' son."

Riddle nodded. "I saw the resemblance."

The Finite Incantatem hit them before they had a chance to react. Hermione threw herself flat on the ground out of instinct, and she looked up. Noise echoed from the hallway in front of them, but it looked like someone had used Peruvian Darkness Powder up ahead, and Hermione couldn't see a thing past ten feet away. Her breath caught in her throat. What if it were Ron or Harry in there?

A nasty-looking spell whizzed its way out of the fray, and Hermione rolled to the side. It hissed by her.

Tom didn't know what to do. He'd never been in an actual battle before, save that one time at Dueling Club, and God knew there had been no Avada Kedavras whizzing through the air then –

Riddle stepped to the side, his eyes wide as a green jet of light shot by him. He knelt down, hurriedly helping Hermione back to her feet. "What shall we do?" Surely she'd know, having lived months in this hellhole.

Hermione remembered, then, what it was like. What it was like to run, and save her own skin, with fear so hot through her veins it was painful. "Run," she whispered, and they fled down the other side of the hallway.

They Disillusioned themselves again in a small hidden corridor, and then Hermione sighed – it was only one more hallway to the Gryffindor common room.

She heard a yell from a nearby classroom. The pair crept out of the hidden corridor.

It was a boy's voice. Hermione's heart beat hard against her chest as she heard the voice of Bellatrix Lestrange say, "Are you sure?" And then – then more screaming. She couldn't tell if it was male or female. It was more animal than anything else.

Rage boiled in Hermione. Maybe if it was only Bellatrix – and Tom Riddle was with her, surely they could –

"Tom," she whispered, "I'm going to open the door. Curse the woman."

He nodded, and Hermione flung the door open. Tom strode inside and flicked his wand. Hermione stumbled inside just in time to see Bellatrix's body fly the length of the room and land, hard, on the ground.

Bound on the floor was Neville Longbottom.

"Neville," sobbed Hermione. Riddle locked the door as Hermione fell to her knees by Neville, vanishing his bonds. She removed the Disillusionment, and Neville stared up at her with horror on his round face.

"Hermione? No – I – it can't be you..."

"It's me," she said, and aimed her wand at him. _Ennervate._

He rose, looking at her warily. "You're dead," he said.

Hermione swallowed. "How -"

"I went up to the Room of Requirement to hide in there, but there was a door already there, and you were in it and you were _dead_." Neville's face changed from bewilderment to anger. "You're a Death Eater!"

He raised his wand, but Hermione flicked hers and disarmed him. She didn't need to be attacked by Neville, not now –

"I swear to God it's me. Ask me anything you'd like."

"Well, then... then what's the one thing I'm any good at?" he asked, his pudgy hand wiping sweat from his brow.

"Herbology," Hermione replied, "even though I think you're good at lots of other things, too."

A weak smile cautiously made its way onto Neville's face. "I... it _is_ you. I was so scared... when I saw it, I..."

Hermione enfolded him in a fierce hug and placed his wand back in his hand. He was damp with sweat. Hermione was shocked that he was still sane, or coherent, after Bellatrix Lestrange's torturing...

"How long did she have you in here?" she whispered.

"A few minutes, maybe," said Neville. "Me, George, and Professor McGonagall got split up by this fight down the other hallway -"

He broke off, his eyes focusing on something past Hermione's shoulder. "Who's that?" he asked, pointing to Riddle's dim outline.

Hermione flicked her wand, and Tom faded back into view. "This is Tom Riddle," she said carefully. "He's a friend."

Neville frowned. He didn't know Voldemort's real name, Hermione realized, and he'd certainly never seen Tom before. "Okay," he said suspiciously.

Hermione turned. "Come on, we have to get to the Gryffindor common room," she whispered, casting a last glance at Bellatrix Lestrange, who stirred.

They fled, and found themselves outside the portrait hole. The Fat Lady had vanished, so there was no password. Hermione opened the portrait uneasily, ducking down in case of an attack, but there was no noise from inside, and no spells whizzed from the portrait hole.

They clambered inside, and Hermione cast _Colloportus _on the portrait, wondering if that would even work on something that had no lock.

"Close your eyes," she told Neville and Tom. They both obliged without question, and Hermione walked up to the fireplace, which was not lit, but ashen and rusting from disuse.

"Harry?" she whispered up into the fireplace. "Harry, it's me. It's Hermione."

For a horrifying second, there was no reply.

And then two feet hit the hearth, and a tall, wiry Harry Potter ducked his way out of the fire, enclosing Hermione in one of the tightest hugs she'd ever experienced. Her heart pounded with gladness. "Jesus Christ, Hermione," Harry said through gritted teeth, "I heard you were _dead – _why didn't you come sooner? Why?"

She swallowed. "I was... well, I _was_ dead," she said.

He stepped back. He was skinny as ever, looked unhealthily pale, and his messed-up hair had grown long. His green eyes looked bewildered, but then they flickered to the other people in the room – well, one in particular – and they widened in horror. "Harry," Hermione said quickly, "Harry, look at me."

It took a second before he did. "What is this? What happened? _Who is he?_"

Hermione swallowed. "Harry, you've got to listen to me," she said quickly. "I read in a book once that – well, I – this is Tom Riddle, but he's not Voldemort, Harry, he's not."

"What are you talking about?" Harry snapped. "Are you trying to tell me that there are _two Tom Riddles?_ I don't even – how – "

Hermione's heart beat fast as Harry's features attempted to control themselves. His face was so familiar, after so long – exactly how she remembered it – and the first thing upon her return from _death_, he was going to be angry at her? Hermione swallowed. "Yes, and seven parts of his soul have completely healed – so he's not... not a murderer_._" Perhaps that was pushing it a bit – she didn't know the exact extent of his soul's condition, of course...

Harry closed his eyes, like he was wishing he would wake up. As he wasn't saying anything else, Hermione signaled for Tom and Neville to close their eyes again, and she hurried over to the flagstone, that one particular flagstone. She tapped it. It rose about a foot in the air, shifted itself over, and Hermione peered into the space below it.

Ron's face tilted itself upwards. Hermione suddenly felt weak.

Ron. _Ron Weasley._ "Hermione," he said fiercely, and pulled himself out of the hole. Hermione flicked her wand, sending the flagstone back into place.

"You two can open your eyes, now," she said quietly to Neville and Tom, but she couldn't look away from Ron. His freckles, his long nose, his gangly body, his flaming red hair – everything felt like it was new, to her, new and so old, like rediscovering an old friend from her childhood. He hugged her, and he smelled like Ron Weasley.

It was nearly like a bad dream for Tom Riddle as he opened his eyes to see Hermione embracing Ron. Riddle's dark eyes met Ron's blue ones, and he tried desperately to keep from looking menacing, but he felt territorial – and very out of his depth, strangely enough. He'd never had a life experience like these boys had had. He'd never had to fight for every breath of his life.

Harry Potter's piercing green eyes were on him. As Tom looked at the boy, he remembered everything that Lord Voldemort had done to him.

"So, er, who's this bloke?" said Ron as he let go of Hermione, but his face paled dramatically as he turned to face Riddle fully. "Wait, hold on – that – is that..."

He looked back at Hermione, and then to Harry. Harry nodded slowly.

Ron looked back at Riddle with absolute dread in his face. "Get behind me, Hermione," he said, completely serious, and he was shocked when Hermione laughed.

The sound was bizarre in this atmosphere, in this common room where the stones of the wall were scarred as if they'd been scratched with great claws and the tables were lying splintered on the floor. Laughter didn't seem to have any place here, not even a quiet laugh.

Tom bit his lip. "Hello. I'm Tom Riddle. It's... er, it's nice to meet you."

More awkward words had never been spoken. He glanced desperately to Hermione for help. "What the bloody hell is this?" Ron said, white-faced, looking as if someone had planted frog spawn in his soup. "Hermione?"

Hermione closed her eyes. She supposed she should have predicted all this, and worse. She was actually surprised that Harry wasn't drawing his wand and attempting to curse Riddle.

She cast a glance at the portrait hole, and then flicked her wand. The sofas repaired themselves, the tables sealed up, and the rugs wove themselves back together. "Let's have a talk," she said quietly.

The talk took place with hushed voices and many glances back at the portrait hole. Hermione hoped she wasn't coming off as a lunatic, saying that she'd met Godric Gryffindor, Miranda Goshawk, Abraxas Malfoy and Herpo the Foul, and seen Dumbledore again – but they had to believe her. After all, there was no _logical_ explanation for why an eighteen-year-old Tom Riddle would be sitting quietly next to Hermione if it wasn't what she was telling them.

She skipped over... well, she skipped over a _lot._ Hermione found that she was utterly terrified of the idea of telling Harry Potter that she was desperately in love with Tom Riddle Jr., and for excellent reason, given the looks that Harry was giving him.

"So you're telling me," Ron said slowly, "that he hasn't tried to kill anyone yet?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes at Ron. "No, Ron. We got back and we came here as fast as we could. And _he_ is sitting right there."

"I'm not here to kill anyone," said Riddle, irked by the way that the three other boys were looking at him. Potter and Weasley were both staring with blatant mistrust, mixed with a sort of disbelief as to his existence. The other boy – Longbottom, was it? He just looked terrified, once he learned who exactly Tom Riddle was.

"Like I'm about to believe that," Potter scoffed. "The last thing we need in this castle is another Lord Voldemort."

Hermione looked around and shushed him. "Harry, keep your voice down. Bellatrix Lestrange is practically on our doorstep -"

"And Tom Riddle is sitting right there in front of us!" Harry exploded, his eyebrows practically meeting in the middle, his green eyes raging. "I can't believe this. _I can't believe_ this is happening!"

Hermione winced again. Did Harry not understand the concept of _be quiet_?

Then Riddle spoke, his eyes flashing dangerously, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Look, I apologize greatly for being here, Potter. But it's not as if I can help it. Do you think I _asked_ to get tossed into a world where there are a bunch of murderous idiots running around Hogwarts?"

Harry laughed disbelievingly. "That's rich, seeing as they're _your_ murderous idiots."

Riddle's eyes darkened. "He and I are not the same person. I did not kill your parents, and don't look at me as if I did."

Harry drew in a sharp breath, and then his gaze flicked to Hermione. "You _told_ him about that? What else did you tell him, where I was hiding?"

"It wasn't Hermione's fault," interrupted Riddle, casting a glance to Hermione, who looked utterly stricken at Harry's last sentence – especially since she had _died_ in the defense of Harry's hiding place. "I used Legilimency on her."

"Oh, great, wonderful," scoffed Ron. "That makes it a whole hell of a lot easier to trust you."

"Well, seeing as you had let on no prior indication that you were thinking of trusting me in the first place, perhaps it isn't a great loss," replied Riddle coolly.

"Not trusting Lord Voldemort?" Harry said. "That's such a _huge_ surprise."

Hermione started to look a little angry. "You're not being fair, Harry."

Harry's face contorted in rage, but then Neville interrupted.

"Merlin, shut up, the lot of you!" he burst out. "We – we've got enough problems to worry about without wondering about someone who might be able to help us. D-did you even think about what seeing _him_ might do to Lord Voldemort? Harry, wouldn't you like every advantage you can get when you have to face him?" He swallowed and looked around, fidgeting. "Because I know I would! You – you're going to have to fight him eventually, you know, whether it's voluntary or not!"

There was a long, long silence.

Neville looked a bit bashful, and then glanced down at his hands. "Sorry."

"No, you're right," said Ron quietly, and then he glanced back to Tom, his eyes cautious. "I, uh... well, if you really aren't... I... I'm Ron Weasley." He stuck out a hand, swallowing.

Riddle took Weasley's hand hesitantly. It was sweaty and cold, and his grip was firm. Riddle felt an involuntary twinge of dislike, thinking about how Hermione had been with this boy. He was even less remarkable in person, Riddle thought – but there was something amiable about him. A bit like Abraxas – a natural and easy likability.

"I'm not doing this, Hermione," said Potter, and Riddle blinked and looked at him. "I can't _do_ this. I can't be worrying about _this_ at the same time as wondering if Ginny's alive or not." Something seemed to catch in Potter's throat. Riddle looked at his eyes – they were alive with a feverish burn, a familiar, possessive, protective burn.

"I'm sorry," whispered Hermione, "he's here to stay."

Riddle felt vindicated by the words. No matter what Potter might have liked, he was there, and it was to stay. He was hardly just going to commit suicide to satisfy Potter's wish.

He reached for Hermione's hand, almost subconsciously, but it moved itself to her lap.

Riddle's jaw tightened, and he looked down at his knees. She wasn't comfortable with the others knowing about them, which was only logical, he supposed, but still more than a bit of an insult. That anyone might be embarrassed to let it be known that they were his? Yes. Insulting.

He almost wished he could just tell these people, but Hermione had known them all her life. He didn't want to disrespect that. In fact, he felt like that was what had to epitomize him right now – respect. He had to respect everything about Hermione, to fix how he had disrespected her, because she was not someone to take for granted, no matter if she'd come back to him. She'd done so out of her own good grace, after all.

Well, that, and she loved him.

The thought made Riddle's throat tighten. He still had her, even if he couldn't hold her hand in front of her Gryffindor friends or kiss her whenever he wanted – he had her, and he would make sure she was safe, no matter what. That incredible sweep of feeling rushed through him, that feeling he'd never felt in his entire life. Cool, clean, remarkably potent love.

He remembered how Weasley had been so indignant about her performing the Fidelius Charm, but of course he hadn't been able to stop her from doing it. Weasley seemed like a... _nice_ sort of type, but from what was in Hermione's memories, he couldn't hold a candle to her in much of anything. Tom felt like she might have grown tired, eventually, of always being the dominant one in the relationship.

He looked over at her, and she glanced up at him for a second before looking back at Harry, who was talking about the people he'd seen, the people he'd managed to see when he'd mustered up the courage to leave the common room.

Riddle wondered what it must be like to feel scared of someone else's magical ability. No one had ever bested him, besides that duel when Hermione had beat him senseless because he'd refused to lift a finger against her... and that didn't count. In fact, the idea of him being scared to duel someone was practically ludicrous.

Hermione shouldn't have been scared, either. She was probably as good as most of her opposition – but then again, it was the same thing with her unnecessary studying. She just didn't have enough belief in her own abilities, really. That didn't matter, though – not while Riddle was there. She wouldn't get hurt on his watch.

"I ran into Professor Flitwick," said Ron. "About a week back."

"I feel like every time we start getting into little groups, start actually having a chance, something happens and we all get split up again," Neville said. "This is the most people I've seen at one time since... well, probably a few months."

"But as of earlier today, George and Professor McGonagall are fine," Hermione said, "right?"

"Yes," Neville said. "But I haven't been trying to find anyone." The words were practically a whisper, and Neville looked ashamed of himself, like it wasn't logical to think to protect himself. _Gryffindors,_ Tom thought, restraining an eye-roll with great difficulty.

Hermione frowned. "Neville, you can't blame yourself for that. If you went around trying to save everyone, then you might not be here right now."

A dark look came over Harry's face. "Well, I wouldn't care if I were here or not as long as I knew Ginny was safe. I can't look anywhere without running into those damn Death Eaters, and then I have to _run -_"

"Running is _nothing to be ashamed of_," Hermione said. "Look – if You-Kn – _Voldemort_ found you, if any of the Death Eaters managed to knock you out and bring you to him? You'd be dead_._ And then you'd be no use to Ginny at all, Harry, so there's no use being impractical."

There was a noise at the portrait hole. Eyes widened. "Neville, Tom – shut your eyes, hurry," hissed Hermione, and as they did, Harry scrambled back up into the chimney, and Hermione flicked her wand to open the flagstone. Ron lowered himself back into the hole, and the rock moved back into place with a _clunk_.

The noise at the portrait hole was more insistent this time, and then there was a loud voice outside, a low male voice. "Ay," it said, "I think we got somethin' here. It's charmed shut."

Hermione swallowed, her heart thudding. Tom rose to his feet, eyeing the portrait hole, and Neville quavered, letting out a low noise of fear.

"It's all right," Hermione whispered back. "Here –" She reached over and rapped him on the head with her wand. He slowly Disillusioned. "Go up to the dormitory," she said.

"No – I'm not going –"

"_Go,_" she said fiercely, but he ignored her, standing his ground.

Hermione reached for Tom's hand. He took hers gently, leading her to the portrait hole, and they pressed themselves against the wall beside the gap in the stone, waiting for something to happen, waiting for anything to happen.

"Damned thing's glued tight shut," said a faint voice from outside. "Alohamora – no, it won't –"

"Well, I suppose we have no choice," snickered another voice, a female voice, and then there was a loud _bang._ Hermione lifted a fist to her mouth to stifle any noise, biting down on her knuckle, her other hand holding Riddle's so tight it hurt.

The voices became clearer, and Hermione knew that the Fat Lady's portrait had been blasted away. That seemed... wrong. It seemed like a violation of something sacred. That portrait was _supposed_ to be there. That was just how it was supposed be, always, but now there were scrapes as someone lifted themselves into the portrait hole with a sigh.

"Oi, Alecto, wait up," said the first voice.

Alecto Carrow. Hermione swallowed. She didn't know terribly much about this Death Eater – but that other voice was sounding awfully, terribly familiar. Alecto said, "I swear on my Dark Mark, Fenrir, if you don't get your tail through here -"

"Oh, you're a funny one," growled Fenrir Greyback. "My tail. That's really ingenious, you know -"

"Hello?" called Alecto's voice sweetly. "Is anyone in there?"

Hermione felt the skin of her knuckle split, she was biting so hard. She groped in her pocket and brought out her wand, her hand shaking, her back pressed against the smooth stone of the wall. They wouldn't just fire a killing curse at the first person they saw, would they? That would be sort of stupid, when they could torture information out of them, right? Hermione felt that as long as she could stay alive, she could keep things under control – she could stand pain. She had withstood the Dark Lord himself, his very own Cruciatus...

She swallowed, and Alecto stepped through the portrait hole. Hermione flicked her wand. _Concida!_

A globe of white air spun towards Alecto. As it hissed towards the Death Eater, though, she turned and lifted her own wand. The spell hit the wall, and Alecto's returning spell was bright red.

Tom flicked his wand lazily, and Hermione suddenly felt embarrassingly glad that he was standing there. Alecto's spell did a lap around the common room and then fizzed into nothingness a foot from her – and Fenrir Greyback hoisted himself through the portrait hole.

"Hello, my dearies," he growled, a disgusting smile on his face, and as Alecto started firing spells in earnest, Fenrir threw himself towards them.

Hermione gritted her teeth and fired a bright yellow spell at Fenrir, but it slid off his very skin. He seemed half-transformed, though that might have just been his grizzled features – maybe that lent him protection – but she shot the next spell right into his face, and it collided with a _crunch_. He staggered backwards, groping for the nearest chair. His eyebrows wiggled downwards over his eyes, restricting his vision, and he let out an animal roar and pulled out his wand.

He started waving it haphazardly, firing spells around the room – spells that cut, spells that lit things on fire, and Hermione found herself quivering in terror again, although she shielded everything out of reflex, ushering Neville behind the protection as he shot stunners.

A hex collided with her shield, ringing like a bell. The barrier snapped. A jet of ret light collided with Neville's chest. Hermione cried out and slashed her wand at Fenrir.

Tom was still battling Alecto, although he didn't even look mildly interested. Then a dark stream whizzed its way towards him and he sidestepped neatly. "Well, that was a touch more entertaining," he muttered. Hermione's eyes widened. Wasn't he even the remotest bit fearful for his safety?

Of course he wouldn't be.

She flicked her wand, and a thick grey shield rose in front of them. She waved her wand, forming a runic spell, the same one that she'd used on Tom, one that would give her complete control – but this time for two targets. _Ehwaz. Irwaz. Zhabra. Duam. Nevim. Qirej._

The shield exploded under Fenrir's attack just as Hermione flicked her wand, and the runic spell scissored into two hexagonal streams of yellow light, which hit their marks dead center. Alecto flipped once before she hit the floor; Fenrir just fell backwards with a deafening _thud._ Both froze as completely as if they'd been Petrified.

"One moment," Tom said quietly, and he flicked his wand. From the immobile bodies of the Death Eaters soared their wands. Hermione nodded in thanks.

Then she guided their motionless bodies back through the portrait hole and bricked up the hole with a flick of her wand, letting out a long, shaking breath of relief.

Tom surveyed the two wands in his hand with distaste, and then his long fingers slowly snapped them. There seemed to be a bit of a rush in the air as they broke, like the magic in them was draining away.

There was a long pause before Hermione turned back to Tom from the portrait hole, and then he leaned down and kissed her gently, and she froze. No. They couldn't do this – not now; not here.

She pulled away silently, casting a glance around nervously. Had Ron seen? Had Harry seen?

Hermione glanced back at Riddle, then, with a bit of an apology in her eyes. He looked resentful. "Is that polite?" he said smoothly.

She shook her head. "No room for politeness here. Close your eyes."

She lifted Ron's flagstone, and told Harry it was safe to emerge again. After reviving Neville, they eyed the wall where the portrait hole had been a bit warily. "Can't they just blast through that?" Harry said.

"It would be difficult to do without wands," Riddle said idly, letting the four halves of the wands clack around in his hand a little. Harry's eyes narrowed as he looked at the broken wands.

"How have you been getting food?" Hermione asked quietly.

Ron shrugged. "We've been Summoning it from the Kitchens, mostly, but sometimes it arrives with a Death Eater attached, 'cause they just follow the flying food, see..."

Hermione frowned. There had to be a way to get food without attracting the attention of Death Eaters. They couldn't just conjure it, because of food being one of the five exceptions to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration. "Are there Death Eaters standing guard there? By the Kitchens?"

"I'd guess," said Neville. "Since we don't have any other way of getting anything to eat..."

"How is there even still food down there, without the House-Elves?" Harry wondered aloud. "I mean, what, does it Apparate in or something?"

"It arrives every day," Hermione replied. "The storerooms restock themselves."

"That'd be a nice place to hide," sighed Ron wistfully.

It hit Hermione. That was it. "Well, then, let's go."

Harry, Neville and Ron stared at her like she'd turned orange.

"Look," she said, "the Kitchens are a perfect place to pull back and regroup. Everyone knows where they are, there's food there – we can start piecing our force back together again."

The idea built in her mind as she pictured it. If they were to create wards around the Kitchens, make it a magically impenetrable fortress, one that Death Eaters couldn't get into – and then if other people managed to find their way back to the Kitchens...

Chaos was the main thing the Death Eaters had on their side, after all. If the Order could all find each other once more, they would be a force to be reckoned with. If everyone could stop being afraid – that was half the battle, after all, perhaps more than half – maybe, _maybe_, they stood a chance.

"But you _just said_ there are Death Eaters down there," Neville said. "Why would we go to them?"

"They wouldn't be expecting five of us at once," replied Riddle, "and the Kitchens would be a valuable tactical strike."

"But if there are five of us, we'll be noticeable," Harry argued. "It'll be more dangerous if we're in one big herd; it'll be harder to get around without them seeing us -"

"It's safer if we're together," Hermione said. "Numbers are always an advantage, and you can forget it if you think I'm just going to leave you two again. Don't forget that we're just as dangerous to Death Eaters as they are to us."

"Not really," said Neville uneasily.

There was silence. No one wanted to suggest they do anything; no one wanted to suggest leaving this sort-of haven. Even Harry seemed reluctant, which was bizarre – Hermione would have thought he'd be the first to jump on the bandwagon.

"Well, then, I'll go myself," Hermione said determinedly.

"You can't go alone," said Riddle quietly.

She understood the unspoken words. _You're not going without me._

Hermione flicked her wand, and the portrait hole melted back into existence. "I... well... then what are we doing?"

"I'm with you, Hermione," Ron said resolutely, his eyes fixing on her. She swallowed as she met those blue eyes she knew so well, and she couldn't help but wonder if he still loved her. Part of her wondered if she still loved him, but no – more of her knew that that had been left behind, somehow, and it was hard to realize as she looked at Ron. It was painful to come to terms with.

"Okay, let's go," muttered Harry. "I don't want you all getting hurt."

They trailed through the hole, Disillusioning as they went.

The Fat Lady's empty portrait lay to the side, a massive hole in its center where it had been blasted through. Hermione swallowed as she looked at the familiar gold frame. Discarded. Abandoned.

They crept down the hallways in absolute silence, hardly daring to breathe. Dawn was just arriving, although it was dark during the days, too, if slightly less so. At one point, a classroom knob rattled, and they all instinctively froze, but nothing came out, so they kept going.

Riddle found all this sneaking about very inconvenient. Wouldn't it have been easier to walk around head held high, wand in hand? Better for defending oneself, in any case, and –

Then he looked through a window into a classroom, and all his thoughts froze in his mind. There, silhouetted in the window, was a swaying body, suspended by ropes. His mouth suddenly got very dry, and he found himself lower to the ground than before. Hermione's memories flicked by in his mind – that bald head, sitting there on the ground, that blond girl chained upside-down, Hagrid in front of the fireplace...

He had been stupid to forget, stupid to forget what had happened to so many, stupid to forget that this was the place where fears were realized.

It seemed like years before they reached the portrait of the fruit that led into the Kitchens, and a single, very tall, thin Death Eater stood outside.

Even as they crept up on him, the Death Eater – he had on his mask, so they couldn't tell who it was – broke out into a sprint and down the hall, following something that burst from the portrait and flew down the hall. "Food," whispered Ron, and Hermione could scarcely believe their luck, that the guard would leave just as they arrived.

They couldn't seem to get into the Kitchens fast enough, although the portrait was slightly ajar. Hermione cast _Colloportus _on the portrait, since that had seemed to work for a while last time, and looked around. The four great tables in front of them were empty, but there was a door at the back of the room. Hermione supposed that was the entrance to the storerooms, and as they hurried over and opened the door, they were not disappointed by its contents: shelves upon shelves of food.

Hermione swallowed at the very sight, and all five started to help themselves, sneaking glances back at the portrait hole. Huge barrels lined the top shelf, with tubes in them that led down to jugs on the ground. Pumpkin juice. Ingredients like flour, too, presumably for pies and whatnot, sat in huge sacks on the big lower shelves. The room was cool and dry and felt secure.

Once satiated, they made their way back out into the main room of the Kitchens once more.

Hermione perched herself at one of the tables. "I've missed you three so much," she said quietly. She hadn't said it yet, but it had been waiting to be said.

"We were so scared for you," Harry said, his voice filled with frustrated relief. "Every day. We even went to try and find you for a while, but after we ran into Neville and he said -" He broke off and glanced at Riddle, unable to keep the dislike from his green eyes. "Well, I guess Neville was right, but you know," muttered Harry.

Dismay filled Hermione's face. "You didn't go _looking_ for me...?" she whispered, horrified. "You can't _do_ that! Especially not without any sort of indication that I might have been hurt, let alone d-"

"Well, I had a dream," he replied fiercely, but that just made Hermione's jaw drop.

"Are you serious? Don't tell me you haven't been keeping up with your Occlumency, Harry, because that's the single most important thing – I've told you over and over -"

"Yes, I have!" he defended furiously. "I've been trying, alright? Just with my damn scar hurting every time I breathe in, it's not exactly easy!"

Hermione bit her lip. Why was his scar hurting, if the horcrux fragment in him from Voldemort had been killed? It must have been because of his blood in Voldemort, the blood that had revived Voldemort, still tied them together...

She sighed. "Okay. Sorry. I just... Professor Snape would have wanted you safe." Her voice was quiet and careful. She'd forgotten how easy it was to set Harry on edge.

At the mention of Snape, Harry he turned his green eyes downwards. "Yeah."

Riddle remembered Snape from Hermione's memories quite well. He'd looked a bit like Herpo – same hair, anyway, and a similar nose. A Potions professor. But Riddle couldn't remember what had happened to him.

It didn't seem right to ask, though, with Potter looking so dismal all of a sudden, so Tom just looked around at the Kitchens a little more. He'd only been inside a couple of times. It was strange without House-Elves, to be certain, and stranger still when it was dark and quiet like this, no torches lit, the only light that which was halfheartedly making its way through a row of thin-looking windows set high up on the wall. "Why can't we get out of here, again?" Riddle asked quietly.

"All the windows are locked shut," Hermione said. "Not just simple stuff, either. It's some sort of ward; we can't break it. It needs the original caster to break it. And then outside, that screen-wall thing? More wards. More stuff that _he_ needs to -"

"Wait a second – couldn't you do it, then?" asked Ron indignantly, looking at Riddle with a sort of light dawning in his eyes.

"No; that's not how it works," Hermione said patiently. "It needs to be the same actual _person_ who cast the original spell."

"Well, he _is_ the _same actual person_," Harry told her, looking at Riddle now as if he were a potentially good-tasting Bertie Bott's Bean.

Hermione gave up trying to resist. "Fine," she sighed. "Would you like to try to break the wards, Tom?" Her tone was clearly disbelieving, and as she met Riddle's eyes, she felt like they might be sharing a restrained eye-roll.

"I'd _love_ to," he said dryly, and raised his wand. _Finite Incantatem._ Nothing. _Apagus Demetria._ Nothing. Several other spell-breakers had absolutely no effect on the windows, which seemed sealed shut as tightly as if they'd been made not to open in the first place.

"Well, it was worth a shot," sighed Ron. _No, it wasn't,_ thought Riddle, but he kept it to himself. Thoughts like that wouldn't endear him to these boys, although it was annoying that he was being forced to act the sweet-endearing-Head-Boy type again, restraining every mildly catty thought that came to his mind. It was especially frustrating now that there were all these feelingsitching at his insides, and also because these people knew about his past, knew about him. Shouldn't he have just been able to let them see what he was really like? Wouldn't that have been more so-called _trustworthy_?

He was... difficult to associate with, though, of course. Likely because of his superior intellect. And superior magical capabilities. And, well, most things, although he managed to forget them around Hermione a lot of the time.

He looked at Hermione and, again, felt like kissing her, but he let out a long breath instead and glanced over at the smooth canvas back of the portrait. "Shall I set up some protection on the back of that thing, then?" he said boredly.

"I'll help," volunteered Neville eagerly, standing. Harry and Ron exchanged a quick glance, and Hermione said,

"N-no, Neville, it's... it's fine. I'm sure Riddle can handle it."

Hermione met Riddle's gaze again. His eyes were laughing. Hermione gave him her best _just-get-it-over-with_ glare and sat back down with Ron, Harry, and Neville.

In the big room, their voices carried more than was comforting. They talked the entire day without interruption, Harry and Ron recounting what had happened to them in the seven months after Hermione had vanished, the people they'd caught glimpses of, the Death Eaters they had seen that were disabled or hurt.

Hermione couldn't believe she was sitting there, in the Kitchens at Hogwarts, with three of her best friends. It kept rushing into her over and over – this surprise, this bizarre _happiness._ Everything she remembered missing about them – Ron's lovable cheer, Harry's fierce protectiveness, Neville's honest determination – was here in this very room. And there was a chance – a _chance_ – that they could stick this out, that they could _survive._ She no longer felt like she was that girl who was standing with five shaking D.A. members in the Department of Mysteries. She felt like a member of the Order of the Phoenix, felt like they had a shot at being able to defend themselves if Death Eaters started attacking.

Especially if Tom Riddle was on their side.

When the sun set, they had a large dinner, and then Ron yawned. "There aren't beds down here, are there?" he said sleepily. "Not that I'm not used to sleeping on the floor by now, but if there's a chance..."

Hermione waved her wand, and a few small beds popped into existence on the opposite side of the tables, near the storeroom, away from the portrait hole. "We can't all go to sleep at once; it's not safe," Neville said.

"I'm not tired," Riddle said.

"He's not standing guard," Harry said instantly, and anger flooded through Riddle.

"It's fine," Hermione replied calmly, standing up – apparently she was used to this sort of thing. "I'm not really tired either. You three sleep. Really. You deserve it."

Harry, Ron, and Neville stood, looking like they agreed. Harry hugged Hermione tightly and said, "You're still the best, Hermione."

Ron ran a hand through his red shock of hair and looked at her again. "Listen, Hermione, can I talk to you in the storeroom for a second?"

She nodded, casting Tom a quick glance before following Ron into the back room. Riddle didn't look happy. What did Ron want to talk about? If it was about what she thought it was... Dread filled her all of a sudden, and she felt reluctant to walk through the door. But she couldn't deny him. Not one of her best friends. Not without a seeming reason. Hermione swallowed and shut the door behind them, and then she froze as she turned to Ron and he kissed her.

Ron had never really been a phenomenal kisser, but she'd assumed he'd get better over time, and it hadn't been anything to waste time worrying about. Now that she had something to compare it to, though – well, besides Viktor, and that had only been once, and she could hardly remember it – Hermione just felt... awkward. It was a fierce kiss, full of longing, and she didn't know what to do. She had no idea how to react.

The main thing about being with Ron had been that it had always felt _right._ It had always felt like she was _supposed_ to be with him. Right then, though, as her back was up against the wooden door and Ron's hand held her shoulder gently – it felt wrong. That was an entirely unfamiliar feeling to associate with Ron, and it made her uncomfortable.

He pulled away, and his eyes searched hers, as if waiting for her to kiss him back, though she couldn't. Hermione swallowed and mustered up her courage.

"Ron," she said softly, "I... can't do this."

Ron's face contorted, as if someone had kicked him in the side. "What?"

Hermione bit her lip. There was no way to express how little she wanted to hurt Ron, the first boy she'd ever loved, the one she'd cried over for so long after she'd died... but she just couldn't. How could she expect herself to push Tom aside? After all, if she hadn't fallen out of love with Tom even after what he'd done, how could just one kiss from Ron change... things? They had already been altered beyond all belief, and that was what Hermione needed to explain to Ron, though, God help her, it felt like it would be impossible. "Things have changed," Hermione whispered, studying his face with dread seeping through her.

Ron swallowed, licked his lips, and looked away, disbelief coming across his features. "Are you serious?" he said, his voice hollow. "This is the first time I've seen you in _seven months,_ and I can't even _kiss_ you because 'things have changed'?"

Hermione opened her mouth, but she had no answer.

"You have no idea how glad I am _you're alive_," he said fiercely. "Hermione, when Neville told us you were dead, I had a complete breakdown. I thought about you every day. Didn't you -" A vague expression of pain flickered across his features. "Didn't you think about me?"

"Yes, Ron, of course I did," Hermione said earnestly, reaching out to put a hand on his shoulder, but he moved away from the touch.

"I still love you," Ron burst out, and as he turned back to her, Hermione wished so hard that she could tell him she loved him. It tore at her heart when she couldn't say a thing in return, tore at her to see his face whiten as he realized what her silence meant. "I thought we were going to be together," his voice said hoarsely, and he stared at her as if she were someone else entirely. "I thought that was the one thing I could be sure about – that I loved you and you loved me."

She opened her mouth to reply, but one of his hands flickered up in a hesitant gesture, and she fell silent. "I... I need time for this, 'mione," Ron said quietly, and he left her alone, then, left her with a dry mouth and a heavy heart. That familiar nickname filled her eyes with tears that wouldn't fall. Back then, she hadn't thought anything could shake her love for Ron. She could hardly believe it had happened even now.

Yet there she stood, leaning against a crate of dark purple plums, staring across at iron girders, very alone.

It was a few minutes before she managed to open the door, and she cast a glance over to the beds. Ron was already frowning slightly in sleep, Harry was clutching onto his pillow as if trying to throttle it, and Neville had his covers pulled up to his chin, grasping them tight. Suddenly, Hermione did feel tired. She looked back at Tom, who faced the portrait hole, leaning against the table, his long body relaxed.

Casting a last glance at her sleeping friends, Hermione walked over to Tom, reaching a hand up to his back and kissing him softly on the side of his neck. He lifted his arm and placed it around her shoulders, pulling her in tight against his side. "What did he want?" Riddle asked, his voice low and unreadable.

"What do you think?" Hermione murmured, resting her head on his shoulder, relaxation seeping through her as he held her close. "I was praying he wouldn't still..." She trailed off and swallowed misery.

"He still loves you," said Riddle. "And you..."

Hermione tilted her face up to him. She looked drained. "You have nothing to worry about, Tom," she said, but the words weren't happy. Casting aside the love of someone she loved so much was nothing to cheer, no matter if Tom looked reassured by the words. She didn't love Ron, and that wasn't a point of celebration, and worse was the prospect of having to tell her friends about who she loved in his stead.

Riddle looked down at her, his almost-anxiety receding somewhat. She looked pensive, on edge.

So he kissed her, and as his warm lips comforted her, Hermione felt her tension streaming away. They both turned a bit to face each other fully. Hermione lifted her hand and trailed her touch up the back of his neck to bury her fingers in his soft hair, and his arms encircled her securely. As he withdrew a bit, she could feel his breath soft on her mouth, his calm eyes surveying her face.

Then he straightened up and she pressed her head to his chest, closing her eyes as he hugged her gently. Riddle found that he knew what to say to comfort her, didn't feel uneasy at all faced with her worry. Feeling coursed through him, and it felt comfortable now – soothing, revitalizing, wonderful. His voice was a soft whisper above her. "I have no doubt, Hermione, that you shall move on."

Letting out a shaky breath, Hermione nodded once. "Yes. Making the rather dangerous assumption, of course, that we all get out of this alive."

"I don't find that amusing," he replied quietly. She let out a half-chuckle as his embrace tightened.

"When are you ever amused?" Hermione said, and looked back up at him.

"Very rarely."

"Exactly. I would have thought a bit of death would cheer you right up, actually," she mused with mock cheer.

His expression darkened. "_Not_ funny," he said, and kissed her. Again. Again.

They sat down on the nearest bench, facing outwards, and Hermione said, "I'd like to talk about what happened."

Riddle's jaw tightened. "Must we?" he said. Right now he dangled above that vast sea of remorse, the waves lapping eagerly at his feet. It was unforgettable. Ever-present.

"Yes," Hermione said. An echo of pain in her face caught Riddle's eye, and he said,

"All right."

"Could you please... explain your reasoning?" she asked carefully, messing with her hair distractedly. "I just – I just... would like to understand. Or try to."

Riddle looked down at his hands, but when he looked back at her, his gaze was steady. "I had it in my mind that since you had promised to tell me, that gave me license to attempt to coax it out of you. And since you're such an proficient Occlumens, I figured it would need to be quite a shock to get your mind to open up. I sorted through several options in my mind, and that seemed the most jarring. I assumed that once I cast Legilimens on you, you would understand that I had just been attempting to get the information I wanted, and had never intended to hurt you."

Hermione stared at the table. He continued, "Of course, nothing turned out the way... the way it was going to, in my mind. A disappointing failure of a plan, although my plans never do seem to pan out in a regular fashion around you..."

He let out a sigh and looked away from her, his brown eyes weary.

"Heightened, of course, by the small detail that it was me who killed you," he finished quietly. "That managed to disrupt things."

"It wasn't _you_. It was Lord Voldemort."

"That wasn't what you said before," Riddle said. He stared straight ahead, remembering her angry words.

"If I recall correctly, I also said that you were, and I quote, the foulest thing that has ever lived. Unquote. But that's not true."

Tom sighed. "I do rather hope not."

She smiled at that, but then the smile faded away. "That really was terrible, to do that to Araminta. She only ever wanted your affections."

"Those are yours."

"Yes, but -" Hermione fixed him with her schoolteacher stare – "I hope you understand that you can't _do_ that. Especially not when you're attempting to extort information out of me."

He blew his hair out of his eyes. "Yes, Professor Granger," he replied, and she knocked him with her shoulder.

"Do not _ever_ take my loving you for granted again, or I will... I will do something drastic."

"Will it be drastic by my standards?"

"Well, no, probably not," Hermione admitted. "But that's not really saying much, is it?"

A satisfied smirk appeared on his face. "It's amusing when you attempt to intimidate me, Hermione," he murmured, and pressed his lips to her cheek, right next to her mouth. "By all means, continue trying."

Hermione's cheeks turned a bit red, then, and she said, "I'm serious."

"Yes, I understand," Riddle said. "Betrayal in the attempt to fix a broken promise is unacceptable."

"Shall I write it down for you?" she teased.

"No. That would be most embarrassing."

She shrugged. "You could use some embarrassment."

He reached up a hand and lightly ran his fingers through her bushy hair. His eyes had a touch of fondness tinting the usual possessiveness, and his mouth was relaxed, serious. "I would humiliate myself for you," he said quietly.

"No, you wouldn't," Hermione sighed, leaning towards his touch, "and you don't need to tell me you would."

"But I would," he murmured, and tucked her hair behind her ear, kissing her softly. "I would."

A small smirk lifted the side of her mouth. "Well, then, under the rather unlikely assumption that you're telling the truth, I'll have to think of an appropriate embarrassment for you."

"What do you have in mind?" his dark voice said, a hint of a smile at its edge. He leaned down and kissed her neck.

"We'll see."

They jerked apart as a sudden creak came from one of the beds. Neville was sitting bolt upright, the sheets looking like they might tear in his grip. "Nightmare?" Hermione said.

He nodded. "I can't go back to sleep," Neville said frantically, looking from Hermione to Riddle and back again. "It was terrible, Hermione, I swear -"

"That's okay," Hermione said. "You can sleep later. It hasn't been long; you can wait a couple hours."

Neville sighed and swung his feet over the side of the bed, standing up slowly. He seemed to have aged a lot in the last months; there was a tired, drawn look to him that Hermione didn't like. She thought back to all the things he said he'd seen – there had probably been more where that had come from, too.

"You should sleep," Riddle said softly, surveying her face.

"I'm fine."

He shook his head. "You need your rest."

She frowned. "So do you."

"I will sleep once you have, and I will not hear a word to the contrary."

"But -"

"Hermione," he said quietly, and she met his eyes.

Hermione sighed. She was no tragic heroine, fainting onto a feather pillow, and she found the very thought disgusting. But she was tired, and she supposed it was stupid to reject a safe night's sleep. "Fine," she replied, and looked back at Neville, who was eyeing their conversation with something almost like suspicion. "Do try to be nice to Neville," she said under her breath as she stood up.

Riddle smirked. "Noted. Sleep well."

She smiled and patted Neville on the back as he walked by, and then she got into the unmade bed, rolled over onto her side, and drifted off to sleep.


	30. Chapter 30

** Thanks:**

** Risottonocheese, Adrenaline Junkie In Da House, Jen, sweet-tang-honney, november21, jkrowlingrox, lekass, Anna on the Horizon, Scarlett, looksponge, loupyloupowell, XxXxLOVExXxX, bwahahaha XD, OfCakeAndIceCream, alianne, Shelby, chrissytingting, The-Konoha-Shadow, A. Ymous, deator11, MissImpossible, bingbing196, Bellas Decathexis, Galavantian (definitely see your point. :D), emobabygirl101, Azneejit, and MrsMargeryLovett. **

** In other news, I just recently discovered the fanfiction that is ****My Immortal****. Please, please read some of it – you'll laugh so hard you'll implode. It's not on ffnet anymore, but if you google it you can find the entire thing because it has its own website due to its massive infamy. If you read it before you read mine, it'll make me seem so much more talented!**

** With love, as always,**

** Speechwriter.**

* * *

When Hermione awoke, the night was over. Her eyes widened as she saw Tom sitting quietly at one of the tables, his legs stretched out, twirling his wand slowly in one hand.

She slipped out of the bed, blinking the sleep from her eyes desperately. "Have you really not slept this whole night?" she asked him.

"Good morning," he replied. "And no. Tom Riddle does not renege on his words."

"Except when you need to," Hermione muttered, suddenly angry with herself.

"I resent that," he said, standing up and walking to join her by her bedside. "But now that you're awake, I feel confident in the security of this room, so I may get some sleep."

He blatantly restrained a yawn and kissed Hermione on the forehead before dropping off to sleep in her vacated bed. Hermione gently smoothed back the hair from his forehead, her eyes softening. She supposed she ought to be thankful for Tom, but the idea of him just sitting there, alone for hours...

Hermione stepped into the storerooms and helped herself. The fear inside her seemed to have settled into a dull, nervous throb. How could they get word out for the Order to assemble in the Kitchens? They could hardly yell it out into the hallways and hope the Death Eaters went temporarily deaf.

She swallowed, her heart beating a little faster, at the idea of going out into those dark halls. That was, really, the only way...

Hermione jumped as a handful of grapes plucked themselves from the stem and flew out the storeroom door. She stared at them as they attempted to burst through the portrait, remembering Ron's words. _They just follow the flying food, see._

She hurried over to the portrait and examined the wards Tom had put in place. They were excellent, of course – all Anti-Pugilistics, easily adjustable from inside, but difficult to break from outside. Hermione tapped one of the stones in the wall. It slid in on itself slightly, creating an exit to the hall outside, and Hermione guided the grapes away from the portrait to the new hole. The grapes flew out one by one, trailing down the hall in a single-file line like some bizarre, miniature, fruity army.

Hermione shook her head after briefly considering keeping the food from going anywhere. It could just as easily be a Death Eater summoning it as someone she knew, but she couldn't risk depriving her friends of something to eat. She tapped the stone again, and it slid back into place.

Hermione glanced back at the storeroom and ducked as a loaf of bread whizzed its way towards her. Shaking her head, she tapped the same stone to make the hole reappear, and the bread escaped.

She restrained a snort of laughter. The humor of the image of Fenrir Greyback sprinting after that line of grapes was not lost on her.

"Morning," she said, as Harry rolled out of bed groggily. He nodded.

"What's the time?" he asked.

"No idea," Hermione replied. "It looks as if the sun's just rising, but with the clouds, I can't be sure."

Harry looked up at the windows and then winced, his fingers flying to his forehead. Hermione bit her lip, knowing how much he hated it when anyone dared to look worried about him, and he shook it off after a second and went over to the storeroom.

Over the next half hour or so, Neville and Ron both slowly came back to life. As they all sat down together, Harry cast a glance over at Tom, who was sleeping peacefully, and said, "What's with him?"

Hermione bit back a sharp retort. "He stayed up all night."

"What'd he do that for?" snorted Ron, and Hermione _very_ carefully restrained herself from snapping.

"Because I was tired, and he didn't want us to go unguarded," she said.

Neville raised his eyebrows. "That was nice of him," he said quietly, but Hermione was frustrated to see that Harry just looked suspicious, and Ron disbelieving. She tried putting herself in their shoes. If Ron had vanished for seven months, leaving her scared stiff, and she'd heard that he died, and he suddenly returned with a young Lord Voldemort?

She sighed and glanced over at the portrait hole. "I think we should go out in small groups and bring back whoever we can find."

Ron said, "There are only five of us, Hermione; how much smaller can we get?" He spoke carefully, as if attempting to restrain himself from saying what was really on his mind.

"I just think we should leave a couple people here, just in case someone happens to run by or something."

"But what if Death Eaters attack us?" asked Harry. "What if that one from yesterday comes back and sees the portrait's locked shut?"

Hermione bit her lip. Actually, the fact that the Death Eater _hadn't_ returned probably meant that he had found someone. Her stomach lurched at the thought. "Once there are more of us, I feel as if that won't -"

"But there aren't more of us _now_," Harry interrupted.

"Well, then, let's start, before a Death Eater shows up," said Neville, looking around at them as if for validation.

Hermione silently agreed, but waited for Harry and Ron to say something.

"Who'll stay behind, then?" Ron asked.

"It's dangerous for Harry to stay in one place for too long," Hermione said immediately.

"I won't be much use if I stay here," admitted Neville. "But I probably also won't be much help in a fight."

"Well, I'll go, then," said Hermione. "You, me, and Harry."

"I'm not leaving Ron with _him_," Harry said fiercely.

Hermione gritted her teeth. "Harry, if you won't trust Riddle, will you please trust me?"

Harry looked at her for a long second, and then Ron said, "Harry, it's fine. I'll be fine."

Hermione hated the worry on Harry's features, hated that he thought Tom might torture and kill Ron.

"You better get a move on," said Ron.

Hermione nodded and Disillusioned herself, Harry, and Neville. They opened the portrait slightly and snuck out, and it was not until Hermione was already standing outside that she realized exactly how angry Riddle would be that she had walked out into the depths of Hogwarts without him by her side.

She shook the thought away and whispered, "Where should we check first?"

"The library?" said Neville.

"Sounds good to me," came Harry's voice. They crouched and hurried towards the steps, their footfalls seeming to ring twice as loudly as they should have.

It wasn't terribly far to the library. It was perhaps the first time the sight of the large doors did not comfort Hermione. They were just open enough for them to squeeze through. Harry went first, peering around suspiciously.

The library wasn't the brightest of rooms in the first place, and without the torches lit it was practically as dark as night. Hermione glanced around – there didn't seem to be any signs of life, to her almost-relief, and then she remembered that they were supposed to be trying to find signs of life...

She poked through the familiar shelves, smelling dust, Harry's breathing audible ahead of her. She whispered, "Well, there don't seem to be any Death Eaters..."

Then Harry's voice echoed around the library, shockingly loud. "Hello? Anyone?"

Hermione jumped and threw a hand out at Harry's dark outline. She caught his shoulder. "What are you _doing_?" she hissed.

"Well, how else are they going to know it's us and not a couple of Death Eaters?" Harry whispered back.

"You'd better let me do it. The Death Eaters _cannot_ know where you are."

A muscle tightened in Harry's jaw, but he nodded. Hermione took a breath, looked around, and said in a normal speaking voice, which seemed to echo horribly, "Anyone? It's Hermione."

There was no answer. Hermione looked back at Neville, but he shrugged. "I can't see anyone. Maybe we should just leave."

Hermione nodded in agreement. They crept from the library again, and Hermione was met with a jolt of remembrance as she looked down the corridor. This was where she'd sprinted after Avery as he dragged Ginny away...

She set off in that direction without even thinking about it. "Where are we going?" breathed Harry as he walked next to Hermione.

"This is where I last saw Ginny," whispered Hermione.

Harry froze, and then hurried ahead. "Where was it? Where, Hermione?"

She put a finger to her lips. "Avery took her in here."

Hermione looked in through the classroom window. Harry peered in too, but the classroom was dark and empty. He let out a frustrated breath.

"I wouldn't expect her to be in the same place," Hermione whispered. "It's been months –"

"I know," he snapped, and Hermione recoiled.

Then, suddenly, screaming erupted from somewhere up ahead. They couldn't pinpoint the direction of the noise, exactly, because the echoing made it seem like it was coming from all sides.

Harry said, "It's coming from that way, I think," and sprinted down the hallway. Hermione and Neville followed, and Hermione found herself feeling sick to her stomach. They were sprinting towards torture, perhaps, or towards a battle where someone could be killed... just like that, just as easily as being stunned or jinxed...

In the stairwell, it was practically impossible to figure out which way to go, so Harry made a split-second decision and ran up the steps. Hermione bit back her fear, reaching her hand into her pocket and gripping her wand. This was nothing more than another duel, nothing more than another Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson –

Then the screaming solidified, as they barreled out into the fourth floor. It was coming from one of these classrooms, but they were all dark, every single one. They stopped running and slowed down to a creep again, checking all the windows – and then Harry fiercely beckoned to them, stopping beside one of the doors.

Hermione pressed her cheek to the glass, careful not to make the door move. There was only one Death Eater inside, standing over a huddled figure. Hermione couldn't tell who it was.

"Okay. Neville, you open the door, Hermione, you get whoever that is out safely, and I'll hex the Death Eater," Harry whispered fiercely, checking up and down the hallway quickly. "On three. One – two – _three._"

Neville wrenched the door open, and Harry rolled into the classroom, even as the Death Eater instinctively whirled and sent a fizzing curse towards the door. "Stupefy!" Harry yelled, flicking his wand. The spell hit the Death Eater square in the chest, and they flew backwards, slamming into the wall. Hermione flicked her wand, lifting the huddled figure on the ground into the air and out the door. Harry scrambled back out of the classroom, saying quickly, "Colloportus."

They fled back down the hallway to the stairwell, not daring to stop and see who it might be that they had saved – their robes were twisted up and thrown over their head, and there was no time to bother with that. Hermione's heart pounded. "Let's get back to the Kitchens," she whispered. Neville looked back into the stairwell and let out a squeak – footsteps, loud, heavy footsteps, pounded behind them. Hermione's heart leapt into her throat.

"Library," hissed Harry, and they fled headlong towards the Library, squeezing through the doors and sprinting back into the Restricted Section.

They all tried desperately to calm their breathing, but Hermione didn't seem to be able to. She dropped her wand, lowering the person to the floor, and she collapsed, hugging her knees to her chest, fear constricting her lungs. She shut her eyes tight, searching for a comforting image, any image. Tom's face swam through her mind.

Hermione swallowed and took in deep breaths through her nose.

"They didn't follow us?" whispered Neville. Harry shook his head and rolled the person they'd rescued over, removing robes from his face.

Hermione let out a long breath. George Weasley. He'd escaped the battle fine – but he'd been split from Professor McGonagall. He breathed shallowly, his freckles stark on his pale face, and there seemed to have been a clump of hair torn out of his scalp, which drizzled blood down the side of his face with the missing ear.

Flicking her wand to siphon away the blood, Hermione surveyed the rest of George's body. He didn't seem terribly hurt, which was a boon. The twins always had been proficient, Hermione remembered, with a twinge of pain in her chest as she remembered Fred's death. Remembered that bloody first part of the battle where Lupin and Tonks had been slaughtered as if they had been nothing –

Harry pulled out his wand and whispered, "Ennervate." George shivered a little, and then frowned. He curled up instinctively. When his eyes opened, he looked more baffled than anything.

Of course, the Disillusionments were still on. Hermione flicked her wand, removing them.

George's face cleared, and he let out a shuddering breath of relief. "Thank God." His voice was raw, hoarse, and painful; Hermione knew how it felt to speak through that.

"Who was it?" whispered Harry. "Who was hurting you?"

"Macnair," breathed George. "He kept asking me where my brother was, and I kept telling him I had more than one, the stupid git -"

Hermione swallowed. They'd be looking for Ron, of course, now that Hermione had proved worthless. But Ron had told her they'd only been able to lay a hand on him once, and that was during a brief scuffle outside Fluffy's hallway. Hermione silently thanked their lucky stars that she'd used the Fidelius Charm for him, too, and then she realized – the Kitchens were not nearly as safe a place for Harry and Ron as the Gryffindor common room. Perhaps there was a shortcut up to the common room, a way they could easily flee – or maybe they could create one...

Who was a better person to ask about secret passageways than a Weasley twin?

"George, is there a way to get to the Gryffindor common room quickly from the Kitchens?" she asked.

He half sat up, but collapsed again, grimacing. "My body won't work right," he moaned quietly. "But 'course there is, Hermione – how do you think we got all the food we needed up there all the time?"

Hermione nodded. "Where is it?"

"The back of the storeroom. One of the flagstones, I'd have to show you – and it spills right out about two hallways away from the common room."

She breathed out in relief. "Perfect," she whispered. "Now, come on – we need to get you back to the Kitchens."

"Why, what's in the Kitchens?" asked George as the other three helped him to his feet. He clutched at the bloody patch on his scalp. "Merlin's beard, that hurts -"

"We're trying to regroup," Harry answered.

Hermione said, "But if there are Death Eaters between here and the Kitchens..."

"Whatever happens," said Neville determinedly, "we've got to get George back."

George grinned weakly. "Thanks, mate. I appreciate it, since I can't stand on my own damn feet..."

Hermione Disillusioned them all again, and they snuck into the hallway, checking to the left and right. As they turned the first corner, a figure suddenly loomed in Hermione's peripherals, and she whirled around to face it.

"Disillusioned, are we?" snarled a deep male voice. "Finite Incantatem."

All four of them faded back into view. "RUN!" screamed Hermione, and waved her wand violently to deflect a jet of yellow light that flew towards them. It hit the wall and exploded with a tremendous _bang_, sending fragments of a portrait frame spinning through the air. "RUN!" she yelled again. "GO!"

It seemed as if the Death Eater had been too distracted with the flailing Hermione to get a clear look at Harry, because he didn't give chase after the three boys, who were fleeing down the hallway as fast as possible, George's arms slung over Harry and Neville's shoulders. The Death Eater fired a spell at their retreating backs, but Hermione staggered sideways and flicked her wand, and a white mist rose in front of the spell, sending it hissing into the ceiling.

Her heart pounded. Who was it? Who was she fighting?

She waved her wand, and the fragments of portrait all around the Death Eater flared upwards in a sudden inferno. He flicked his wand and the flames extinguished themselves, twirling into a point of light that sped towards Hermione. She sidestepped, desperately casting simple spells at him. All her advanced magic seemed to have drained from her mind; she couldn't think straight –

"I thought I'd seen the last of you when Fenrir dragged you off," said a cold voice from behind the Death Eater's mask, and Hermione froze for a second, just before diving out of the way of a red jet of light and firing a Jelly-Legs Jinx at him. Avery. It was Avery. _Ginny._

And, suddenly, Hermione was on the offensive. She scrambled to her feet, drawing in a deep breath through her nose, and – _Dora Auctus!_ – the rock in front of Avery reached up like a giant claw. He staggered backwards, defending with a cutting spell – and the cut sliced through the stone and continued towards Hermione. She drew in a sharp breath and staggered away, but the curse caught the side of her leg, and she yelled.

"Not so nice, is -" started Avery's sneering voice, but she flicked her wand, and then he froze in place as Hermione cast Arigulum Minima. _Thank you, Araminta Meliflua._

She limped up to him slowly, clutching at her throbbing calf, letting out thin hisses of breath to try and control the pain. "You're going to tell me where Ginny Weasley is," she growled, and snatched his wand.

She flicked her own wand, and ropes wrapped themselves around Avery. He fell to the ground, arms stuck by his sides. "Start talking," she said, voice cold with fury, "and I swear to God if you yell for help I will stamp on your face_._" She meant it, too, which was scary for her to realize. She knelt down by him and tore off his mask. Hot anger choked her at the sight of him.

Avery opened his mouth, but he just spat at her, wriggling. Rage boiling in Hermione's stomach. "I'm giving you one last chance before I do something I'm going to regret."

"Like you've got the guts for it," said Avery, his voice sounding a lot less frightened than he was looking.

"Oh, I've got the guts. Don't you worry." Hermione's voice was quiet and menacing. "Start talking."

She pressed her wand to his throat, and he swallowed. "No," he said. "I can't."

Hermione bit her tongue. Of course – if the Dark Lord found out about this, he'd be tortured beyond all imagining. She shook away the thought – _no sympathy, Hermione_ – and instead refocused on the fact, the simple fact, that he knew where Ginny was_._

The answer came to her all of a sudden. "Legilimens," she said, and then she was inside his mind, a strange, spectral mind. She flew past everything until the Death Eaters took Hogwarts.

She stopped, and her grip tightened on the wand. This memory – this was it. It was familiar, for it was in her head, too, only now it continued after Fenrir dragged her down the hall – continued after Hermione saw Ginny's terrified face disappearing behind the door.

"Come on," hissed Avery to Ginny, pulling her up to her feet by her hair, and she screamed. "Let's take a walk." He stuck his hand into a glass with Floo Powder, threw it into the fire and it flared green, and he stepped in and said, "Potions Classroom" –

"Got her," said Avery, "even though she put up a bit of a fight," and Antonin Dolohov turned away from Molly Weasley, who was suspended upside-down in the air, revolving slowly, and Dolohov said, "Well done, then – bring her here, we're supposed to find out where her brother is, since this one here, that's his mother, see, hasn't moved in hours," and Avery shoved Ginny in front of him and she stumbled and hit her head on a large cauldron as she fell, and as she looked up at him there was hate in her eyes and an ugly gash on her forehead –

Then, from there, there was screaming, and Ginny suffered for minutes while Dolohov attempted to get into the mind of Molly Weasley, his wand held up high, but then for a split second he turned away to look at the shrieking Ginny, his wand still raised, and the arm of Molly Weasley flailed out and snatched at his wand, and Avery roared, "Watch it," but it was too late – the spell was broken, and Mrs. Weasley hit the ground, rolling to her feet, breathless and wild-eyed –

And then Avery and Mrs. Weasley had at it, and Dolohov tried to get at her with his bare hands but she kicked him in a place that must have been quite painful, her eyes filled with rage like Hermione had never seen, and she baredher teeth_, _ran forward, grabbed Ginny's hand, and cast a spell that exploded into Avery, flinging him back, and then the memory ended –

And when he awoke, the Dark Lord was standing above him, twirling his wand idly in his fingers, and Hermione swallowed, for Tom had been doing that just last night –

Before she could withdraw from Avery's memories, though, she was yanked out involuntarily. A hand gripped her collar. A hand with long nails that scratched, and a wand pressed the back of her neck. "I don't understand," hissed Bellatrix Lestrange. "this one's supposed to be _dead._"

Hermione shook with anger, staring up at Bellatrix, the one who had tortured Luna, the one who had ordered Hagrid to be _whipped_, like an _animal_ –

And she just couldn't restrain herself. "Sorry to disappoint," she growled. She clenched her left fist tight, shot up, and smashed her fist into Bellatrix Lestrange's face.

Bella hadn't expected a _thing_ – her fatal flaw always had been overconfidence. She let out a howl of agony, but Hermione was already lurching to settle back onto both her feet, her bloody leg screaming in pain. As Bellatrix clutched her broken nose, Hermione flicked her wand, and – _Petrificus Totalus!_ – Bellatrix was on the ground, unable to move a muscle.

"Bellatrix!" yelled Avery, and his eyes focused on Hermione. "I'll remember you; you won't get away -"

Hermione Silenced him. "Silence befits you," she said coolly, and then, hardly believing that she had just said that, she sprinted away as quickly as she possibly could, her left leg feeling like it was spilling its weight in blood every time she put it down.

_Shit – _Hermione looked back at the huge, splashing, messy trail she was leaving. _Evanesco!_

She had to turn back and Vanish the blood every few steps, but there were no more Death Eaters between there and the hallway to the Kitchens.

Hermione froze – someone stood outside the portrait to the Kitchens – but she relaxed as she realized it was Tom.

He caught sight of her, and Hermione was shocked still by his expression. Riddle looked _livid._ He was even flushed an angry red, which was entirely new –

"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?" he yelled down the hall at her. Hermione's face drew in shock, and then in fear – what if someone heard him? – but he didn't seem to care. He ran to her, gripping her shoulders fiercely, taking in sharp breaths as if he had just sprinted miles and miles. She felt fear fill her again. What was wrong with him? What had happened?

Then she was getting dragged along behind him back through the portrait, and she only just managed to flail out an arm and Vanish the blood she'd left outside.

The other boys in the room looked just as scared as she felt. Every single one of them stared at Riddle, who, now, at least, seemed like he was trying to get himself under control.

"Merlin, Hermione, you're bleeding," Ron said, his voice filled with worry, and he got to his feet.

"It's just my leg. I'll fix it; hold on."

She limped to the table and pulled up her sodden pant leg, Vanishing the blood. It was a large, deep, clean cut. Hermione winced as she set her let up on the table and set up a small runic spell.

It sank into her leg, and slowly the skin knitted itself back together. The tissues beneath did the same, and Hermione sighed as the throbbing vanished.

Then she swayed and sat down ungracefully on the table with a small _thud._ Using a runic spell after losing enough blood to fill the lake was probably not the best idea. Hermione swallowed, and a hand gripped her shoulder, steadying her. "Thanks," she muttered vaguely, putting a hand up to her forehead and nearly poking herself in the eye in the process.

"Blimey, what happened?" Ron asked. "Which Death Eater was that? How did you get away? When Harry and Neville and George came back alone, me and Riddle were right about ready to come after you –"

"It was Avery. I tied him up, Silenced him, and read his memory."

There was a vicious satisfaction to her words, and an awed silence filled the room. Harry let out a short, almost-disbelieving laugh. "Why would you read his memory?" he asked, but then his face froze in realization. "Avery..." he breathed. "Is Ginny all right? Is she okay? What happened?"

Hermione felt bizarrely filled with the urge to laugh. "Avery took her to the Potions classroom. Dolohov was there, and so was your mum, Ron – and she just grabbed Dolohov's wand and -" She broke off, letting out a snort of laughter. "And kicked him... in... well, kicked him in a quite painful spot, and then she and Ginny ran. So as far as I know... they're safe." She let out a long, relieved sigh.

"Oh, and I broke Bellatrix Lestrange's nose," Hermione continued, and the awed silence turned into absolute delight.

"What curse did you use?" asked Neville excitedly. "Oh, I wish I'd stayed!"

"I didn't use a curse," said Hermione, shaking out her left hand, feeling very, _very _woozy now, as if she were just making things up, but it had _happened..._ "I punched her, and then I used Petrificus Totalus, and then I ran – well, limped – away, as fast as I could..." She dissolved into giggles. "The look on her face! Besides all the blood, that is." She swayed dangerously.

"You need rest," said Riddle, tightening his hold on her shoulder, his lips thin. "And a Blood Replenishment draught wouldn't hurt, either, but I'd suppose that's not an option, with our current resources."

Ron's face lit up. "Hold on!" he said, and ran to George, who was passed out in one of the beds. Ron rummaged around in George's pockets, bringing out some useful Weasley wares – Peruvian Darkness Powder, and then a box, which Ron opened expectantly. "Yes," he said. "Here, Hermione – have half of this Nosebleed Nougat, it'll help a bit with the blood thing."

Hermione groped out for the Snackbox and bit off one end of it. She hoped she hadn't bitten off the wrong end, for a second, but then, weirdly, she felt blood surging through her anew, as if her heart had been ordered to twice its usual pace. "Thanks, Ron," she said, and the giddiness faded into exhaustion. She got tiredly to her feet, walked over to a bed, and as soon as her head hit the pillow, she was out.

xXxXxXxXxXx

Riddle sat at the table, his fingers tapping his knees. He ached to walk to that bed, to yell at Hermione's sleeping body for being so reckless, to kiss her fiercely, to tell her that he would _not_ permit her to just give away the life that was so hard-regained.

The other boys, though, still eyed him with unease. Riddle glanced up at the ceiling, wishing patience would stop being a foreign concept to him, wishing that the trait would bestow itself upon him so that he didn't feel like cursing the Potter boy for his venomous stares...

He looked over at the other Weasley, who was lying in bed, passed out after having been tortured with the Cruciatus Curse. He looked a few years older than Ron.

Then Riddle's gaze fell on Hermione again, and anger swelled inside him. Didn't she understand? She was the only thing he knew in this entire place. She was the only person he could give a damn about, and she had just run off like that into those hallways _without_ him. When he had woken up, he had nearly throttled Weasley when he'd learned that Hermione had just left. The only thing that had stopped him from losing it was the remembrance that Hermione didn't want her friends to know that they were involved, and if all his anger had surfaced, it would have been suspicious indeed.

But then, why should he bother to restrain himself for her if she would just abandon him, run off and risk her own safety? He'd told her she wouldn't be going anywhere without him, and then at the first opportunity she'd gone, sending him spinning into worry. Riddle _detested_ worry – it meant something was out of his control.

She always was rather out of control, though, wasn't she?

He had to make sure she was safe – there couldn't be a chance that she could be accosted and dragged off to some room to be tortured and – and _murdered_, like he'd already done.

Riddle let out a long breath through his teeth. When Potter and Longbottom had returned with the other Weasley slung between them, and Hermione hadn't followed them inside... Well, Potter had only barely been able to restrain Ron from leaving, and no one could possibly have restrained Riddle for any longer than he'd managed to restrain himself.

And then she'd come back hurt. Of all things, she hadn't even managed to preserve herself.

Riddle realized dimly that the other three boys were talking.

"Where'd you see Flitwick, mate?" asked Potter quietly, and Ron bit his lip.

"It wasn't far from the tower up to the Owlery," he said. "I don't know – that's a bit far to wander out – if we can't manage to find him, I'd rather us not be stuck out so far from the Kitchens..."

Neville said, "Me and Professor McGonagall and George were hiding in the walls, for a while – but I'm starting to think that might have been a bad idea, because we kept hearing these weird noises from inside the pipes."

Harry and Ron exchanged a significant glance. "People need to get out of the walls, then," Harry said quietly. "Back when the Chamber opened, that was how the Basilisk used to get around – there's plenty of room in those pipes for Death Eaters to put something nasty in there."

"The Acromantulas are dead, though, right?" said Ron, suddenly looking absolutely ill. "They're not still creeping around, are they?"

"No, those are gone," Neville reassured.

"How do you know that's not your friends, hiding in the pipes?" said Riddle's voice quietly, and the other three instantly turned to him, looking as surprised as if they'd thought he was mute.

Ron blinked a few times before he seemed to get what Riddle had said. "I guess that's not impossible."

Harry's nose twitched involuntarily as he looked at Riddle, and Riddle turned his eyes to meet Harry's. That green gaze was so very furious, so very out of control. "Just a theory," Riddle said calmly.

The edges of Potter's mouth spasmed slightly, as if he were desperately trying to restrain himself from baring his teeth like an animal. "Look, Riddle," Potter ground out, "I – I can't... handle this. You. I'm sorry."

Riddle looked down at the table, wondering where to begin. The other two boys stayed quiet, waiting for his response. "Potter," he said quietly, "I am trying so very hard not to antagonize you. It really is wearisome, your poorly-concealed mistrust."

He let out a slow breath through his nose and looked back at Potter, who bristled, a muscle tightening in his jaw. Riddle continued, "I understand that the concept of my being here may be more than a little troubling to, as you say, 'handle' – but given this situation, I might suggest that you look beyond yourself, if that is possible for you, and realize that this is not a matter of who you can or cannot _handle_." He worked hard to keep the coldness from his tone. "If you would rather I just tell all my thoughts to Hermione, and she can regurgitate them from her mouth, which, at least, you seem to trust – I might ask why it wouldn't be simpler just for us to be civil to each other."

Potter opened his mouth, but Riddle's right hand flickered up, inducing silence. "Before you speak about how it's difficult to be civil to me when I've destroyed your life, I'd ask you to refrain," said Riddle, voice impossibly soft, eyes still locked with Potter's. "If someone told you right now that you would grow up to be a murderer, I presume you would have difficulty taking the news."

Riddle stood slowly, flexing his fingers. "In any case, I'd like to put juvenile predispositions aside, as we're confronted with the immediate and sizeable problem of the people who would love no more than to see your dead bodies lying on the ground." Riddle sighed, brushing his dark hair back. Longbottom seemed in a sort of trance. Ron's eyes looked hollow at Riddle's words. Potter still, infuriatingly, looked repulsed by Riddle's presence, his green eyes flashing.

"Let's go," Potter muttered to Ron, his tone sharp, and he turned towards the portrait hole.

"Oi, mate, where are we going?" Ron asked indignantly. "You've only just gotten back."

"I can't... be in here right now, and as we're speaking someone might be _getting killed_," Potter said fiercely. "Come on_._"

His eyes found Riddle's for a heartbeat, and they clearly read that Riddle was not invited on the next search party. Riddle almost scoffed – as if he had any inclination to go with them, anyway, with Potter being so uncivil and Hermione lying in bed on the opposite side of the room. He made a vague attempt to keep the light amusement out of his eyes as Potter's lip finally curled in that defiant sneer it had been threatening for a while.

"Stay safe," Riddle said quietly. _For Hermione._ Neville cast a nervous glance back at him as the three clambered through the fruit portrait. Then Riddle finally let out that exasperated sigh he'd been restraining and walked over to Hermione's bedside.

He sat on the edge of the bed, observing her sleeping face. Her mouth was slightly open. She looked more unconscious than asleep – although it probably wouldn't take long until she would wake up. A bit of blood loss couldn't merit more than a small nap.

Riddle turned his gaze up to the windows. The wards on them were incredibly strong – possibly stronger than anything he could have created. Riddle suddenly wondered what it would be like to meet his other self. The now-Lord Voldemort would doubtless attempt to manipulate Riddle into joining him – after all, what would be better than two Tom Riddles in collaboration?

Riddle felt, though, that the world could not sustain two Tom Riddles. When the inevitable power struggle occurred, the battle would shake every rock and tree, would cause Muggles to whimper and hide in their hovels. The other Riddle had been alive for seventy years, had had seventy years of festering hate swelling in him, while Tom had been alive for around forty. That meant that Voldemort had had more time to practice, more time to cultivate his Dark Magic, which was surely fearsome_._ Riddle found himself wondering what beautiful things Voldemort knew... what fine Dark Arts were within the potency of that persona...

He swallowed and looked back at Hermione. The power that Voldemort had allured him; tempted him. If Hermione had heard his thoughts, she would have frowned and tutted and told him that those furthest reaches of Dark Magic were nothing to aim for... although they were so _fascinating_. Not solely offensive Dark Magic – pain did tend to lend itself to being generic after a while – but the _Dark Arts_. Studies of death. Studies of darkness, of wounds, of things that could be immensely _useful_ if only they weren't labeled with mistrust because of their inherently eerie nature.

Riddle sighed and shifted a little, and was alarmed when Hermione jerked back awake.

"Go back to sleep," he said quietly.

Her voice was tired as she asked, "Where are the others?"

"Off being dismally heroic."

Hermione's eyes shone with sudden worry. "Just Harry, Ron, and Neville?"

He nodded. "Don't you trust them to keep themselves safe?"

"Around Death Eaters, I don't trust anyone to keep themselves safe." Hermione blinked the blear from her eyes, sitting up.

"Not even me?" Riddle asked, moving back to sit by her.

She rested her head on his shoulder. "You are the exception, though that doesn't mean I wouldn't be worried if you went out there and did something stupid."

Riddle's voice, above her, was almost-amused, but had a faint hint at irritation in it. "So, essentially, what you've just done?"

"I had Harry and Neville!" she protested, lifting her head from his shoulder.

"Would you call either of them proficient in their abilities to protect you?"

He was surprised when she said firmly, "I would trust Harry with my life." Every word bore conviction.

"I would not trust Harry with your life," Riddle said.

"You don't even trust _me_ with my life." Hermione yawned. "How long was I asleep?"

"Hardly even twenty minutes. You really should go back to sleep."

She waved a hand vaguely and stood up. "It was just a bit of a cut, and it's healed." When had he started treating her like a child? Hermione didn't like the feeling. First the sleep issue of the night before; now this? Was he going to start pre-chewing her food next, or something?

The idea made her lips twitch a bit in laughter.

An amused look wandered across his face as he surveyed her. "What's funny?"

"Oh, nothing, Tom," she said. "I just wish you would stop making me feel like I'm eight years old." She pulled out her wand and tamed her hair, and then looked down at George with a smile.

When she looked back up, Tom stood right in front of her, inches away.

The magnetism between their bodies was as unsettling as always to Hermione. It was actually a physical strain not to move in and kiss him, not to feel his lean body pressed up against hers. Her eyes stared at his chest, and then she tilted her head a bit and let her gaze slowly travel to his lips.

"I'm not patronizing you," he said, and Hermione observed how those lips crafted the words, with no strain, smoothly, easily, with just a hint at a smirk buried at the side of his mouth. "I'm well aware how old you are."

But he didn't kiss her. He just trailed one hand down from her collarbones, between her breasts, resting right below her navel for a second before his fingers dropped away from her body, feeling like they would jerk her towards him with that same movement. Hermione found herself blushing hotly. "Then stop treating me like I can't fend for myself," she said, making his eyes flicker back up to hers.

A smile made its way onto his mouth, and he said, "Come on, Hermione – aren't you tired of having to do everything on your own?"

That was an interesting question. Hermione felt like she'd always been a bit domineering, but that was partially because she felt no one else could do a better job of things than she – or, sometimes, even a decent job at all. Well, the idea of Tom Riddle botching something up was particularly stupid. Unless, of course, that botched something happened to involve some sort of social aptitude. Regardless – Hermione wasn't ever one to let things move without her having some say in the matter.

"No need to answer that," Riddle murmured, and then his arms were sliding around her waist and tugging her to him sharply. Her arms came up, and her hands rested on his chest. "I know you must get tired of it," he murmured, dark eyes like chocolate, a small crease in-between his straight, serious brows. "Everyone gets tired of having to be in control."

What an unusually telling statement to come from his mouth, his mouth that was now pressing down onto hers roughly.

Then he took control. One of his hands twisted into her bushy hair, and the other slid down her back, dropping down significantly below her waist. Hermione flushed red even as he kissed her, and she slowly reached her hands around his neck, standing on tiptoe to kiss him more fully. His kiss was demanding, insistent, impossible to control, and Hermione relaxed, letting him kiss her as he wanted, letting him take full command of the situation. His hands wandered freely over her body, lighting fevered desire in her.

She nearly protested, nearly reminded him that George Weasley lay feet away from them, nearly told him that this wasn't the time – but why couldn't this be the time? She wanted him. No one was watching. There was no telling if she would be there tomorrow, or when the next opportunity would be. And he didn't seem open for suggestions right then, not with the way they were crushed tight together, not with the way his teeth were lightly working that sensitive spot on her neck, not with the way he was sliding off her outer robes and pushing her onto the bed.

Hermione groped around for her wand, found it, and cast Muffliato – it would be _really_ bad if this were what George woke up to – and then her wand fell from her hand as Riddle climbed on top of the bed, his knees pressing on either side of her thighs, his hands pinning her wrists to the bed. His every muscle was tense, poised, beautiful as he crouched above her, and Hermione swallowed as a small, real smile appeared on his lips. He surveyed her with those dark, satisfied eyes.

"Relax, Hermione," he murmured, and then he was kissing her again, and Hermione felt as if she was sinking into the bed, sinking into a different world entirely, one where this could happen all the time without reason and without worry. Her heart beat hard, and Tom slowly took off his own robes.

Her fear of Harry and Ron walking in receded. Her fear of being killed receded. Everything she was afraid of was blocked from her mind by the triumphant feeling of him with her, there for her.

He had no problem, at that moment, making it apparent that he wanted to have her. Hermione felt herself heeding his words – _Relax, Hermione – _and let him do what he wanted, caught up in the desperate throes of pleasure.

After it was over, after the sheets looked like they'd been caught in a tornado, Hermione slowly regained control of herself. Only then did the worries start to trickle back in, and she dressed herself and stood.

Tom raised an eyebrow at her, the smirk never leaving his face, his hair chaotic, his naked body unapologetic. Hermione had a delightful afterglow about her, her face flushed, her eyes bright, and Riddle found himself with the hope that she had been able to garner at least a momentary respite from her unnecessary worries.

Perhaps not quite unnecessary.

Tom sighed and got dressed, but left his hair the way it was, as messy as that Potter boy's. He yawned as Hermione vanished the old bed and conjured a new one. The blush was fading from her face.

"I hope they're all right," she said quietly, and suddenly it was as if they hadn't just made love. Her words struck the shimmer from the air, sent everything thudding back to reality.

"Your Potter friend always manages to emerge from things all right," Riddle replied, trying to keep the distaste from his voice.

"He's taking this whole thing terribly. Absolutely awfully. I suppose I shouldn't have really expected anything else."

Riddle's face darkened. "If he continues the way he's going, I'm going to snap," he said quietly, his voice dangerous.

Hermione's eyes flashed. "No. You can't let that happen, Tom. Then he'll have his reason to distrust you. That's all he's looking for, is one reason." She let out a frustrated breath. "I daresay you're already going to be met with enough hate from everyone we manage to find – you really don't need to be worrying about having angered Harry."

Tom scoffed. "I don't care about being ostracized, as long as it doesn't mean they attempt to keep me away from you."

Her eyes softened. She kissed him lightly. "That's not an option."

"You are everything I have here." His eyes burned into hers with fervor. He leaned forward, resting his forehead on. "You are _everything_ I have here. Don't forget that again."

"When have I forgotten that?"

He stepped back, and his voice hardened a bit. "When you walked out of here without me."

Hermione sat down hard on the bed. "Tom, you're being ridiculous. You can't be around me all the time."

"Why not?"

"Because that's not logical! People will get suspicious -"

His eyes darkened. "I don't care. Even if you're ashamed about being with me, I'm not -"

"I didn't _ever_ say that! Don't be so -"

His voice cut her off sharply. "Don't be so _what_, Hermione? So resentful about the fact that I've instantly been tagged as someone who's murdered all these people's friends and family? So angry about your seeming _embarrassment_ over my being here? Shall I just kill myself, then, and get out of you and your friends' hair?"

Hermione's mouth opened in shock, and her eyes flashed angrily. She drew herself up, tossing her bushy hair back. "Do not even _dare_ joke about that, and don't you imply that I'm embarrassed to be with you."

"Then what is it?" he asked, throwing his arms wide and taking a couple steps back. "What is it that's keeping you from telling them?"

"You've seen how they're taking you being here in the first place; why would I push that even further?" snapped Hermione.

Tom looked up at the ceiling, and when he looked back at her, his eyes were furious. "Maybe because _I'm in love with you?_" he said through gritted teeth. "Or did you forget that, somehow? Did you think I just wouldn't mind being shoved to the side at the first possible opportunity?"

"You are perfectly well aware that there are reasons for what I'm doing!" Hermione said, forcibly restraining herself from yelling. Why the hell was he being so illogical? Didn't he understand Harry's thought process? Of course the boy was going to be afraid of _Lord Voldemort!_

"Reasons? By all means, doshare," said Tom coldly. "Is it because of my name? Now that we're back, do you not trust me anymore?"

Hermione's lips quivered in outrage, and then she burst out, "Like I wouldn't have a reason not to trust you!"

All expression vanished from Tom's face. He stared at her. The room suddenly seemed very, very quiet, and Hermione's fists slowly unclenched as she realized what she'd said. "I'm sorry," she said, low and quick, swallowing her fading bitterness. "I didn't mean that. I didn't mean to say that." She took a step towards him, reaching out for his shoulder, but his hand flicked up, caught her wrist in a tight grip, and didn't let go.

"Evidently, you did," he replied, and his voice was like dark ice. He released her wrist.

Hermione's heart beat fast. No. He couldn't close himself off from her here, not now, not while they were in this place. "No, I didn't. I didn't mean it, Tom. Look at me." For he wasn't looking at her, but down at the flagstone between them. "Tom, _look at me_."

He lifted his eyes to hers. His expression was no longer blank, but slightly distant.

"Don't listen to me when I get mad," Hermione whispered. "You know I say stupid things when I get mad."

He just stood there for a while, seeming to be contemplating some sort of response. He said nothing, so Hermione continued, "All I want is for them to give you a chance, and that's impossible if I estrange the boy who still loves me, who also happens to be one of my best friends."

Hermione reached out slowly and took his hand, folding her fingers with his.

"Hermione, is it always going to be like this?" His eyes were troubled, and Hermione didn't like the sound of the words.

"Is it always going to be like what?"

"Is... what I did – is it always just going to be sitting at the back of your mind? Just waiting to be brought up?"

Hermione reached up her other hand and gently traced the curve of his face, trying to reassure him with the touch. To be honest with herself, she didn't know. She didn't know at all. That image, those words – they were forever burned into her mind, and Hermione wondered if she would ever be able to stop being scared of it happening again...

"I wasn't lying when I said I forgave you," Hermione replied softly, his eyes still tumultuous.

"That's not an answer." Riddle closed his eyes, a deep crease appearing between his brows. "Dammit, Hermione – why can't you just give me one straight answer, for once in your life?"

Hermione swallowed and looked down at the ground, her hand dropping miserably from his face. "I don't know, Tom. I don't have all the answers, and I don't know everything, and I don't know the future. _I love you._ I don't care about... about... what's..."

She trailed off and swallowed. It was hard to think of something she did not care about. She cared about their future together. She cared about what was hiding in the recesses of her mind, giving her cynical words of caution. Most of all, though, she cared about _him_, and he didn't seem to understand that.

"I can't erase what I've done to you," Riddle murmured, lifting her chin to look into her eyes. "I think about it _constantly_, and I'm always praying that it'll just seep away, but it doesn't. It won't."

"It's not that easy," she whispered. He kissed her gently, and Hermione felt relief wash over her like a cool breeze. A kiss meant he might be all right.

"Nothing is ever easy enough," he said onto her lips, the words brushing over her skin like a ghost's touch.

Hermione hugged him gently, tilting her head to his chest. His chin rested lightly on the top of her hair. "We'll work it out," Hermione said. "You'll see." His hand placed itself on her head, and she felt secure, reassured. She tightened her grip on him, never wanting him to let go of her, not wanting that fear to slip back in from all around them, like darkness attempting to impinge on a light.

She felt him swallow and sway her a bit. "I don't like being angry," he said, his voice soft above her. "Especially not at you."

"I'm... I'm sorry if it's seemed like I'm attempting to avoid you. It's not intentional. You have to know it's not that I'm trying to stay away from you, I just -"

She broke off and snuggled her head closer against him, and she murmured, "I'm scared."

"Why should you be scared of _this_ place?" came his voice, and she could hear his voice hum inside him, her ear pressed to his chest. "I'm _Tom Riddle."_

Hermione chuckled. "I know who you are."

He sat down on the bed in front of her, breaking the embrace. His handsome face, tilted up at her, had ceased to look angry. He nearly looked wistful as he looked at her, though he was still shielding his expressions. "How long do I have to wait?" he asked glumly. "For them to know?"

Hermione shook her head. "I have no plan for this. They'll find out when they do, and I couldn't tell you when that would be."

"I suppose, in the meantime, I'll have to distract myself with desperate attempts not to Transfigure Potter into something dreadful..."

"I'm sure he's doing the exact same for you."

Riddle raised a dark eyebrow and leaned back on the bed, his long body stretched out, his legs spread wide in that posture of ease and relaxation. "Though likely not with as much wit as I tend to employ," he drawled.

Hermione laughed. "You are utterly... Slytherin."

"Well, if you hadn't figured that out from the phrase 'Heir of Slytherin', then your dullardry is actually quite impressive," replied Riddle, a smirk appearing on his face. There was a slight pause, and then Riddle said, "Kiss me." Hermione scowled, and opened her mouth to protest, but he continued, "Don't argue. Just kiss me."

Hermione's scowl darkened, but she moved forward, her knees pressing against the bedside, his legs sprawled out on either side of hers. She placed both her hands on his chest, pressing him down onto the bed. His smirk transformed into a smile just as she kissed him, her heart beating as hard as if she had never done this before.

Slowly, he sat up. Hermione cupped his face in her hands, trailing a finger down the strong line of his jaw, down his smooth, pale neck. Her finger hooked itself into the neck of his sweater, and she let it hang there gently. Her feet felt a little unsteady on the ground, and she pulled away for air.

It was then that there was a noise at the portrait, and Hermione restrained herself from jumping away from Riddle, remembering that, first, no one could get through those wards unless they let them in, and, second, Tom took offense every time she seemed averse to his affections.

She withdrew slowly, instead, and he rose to his full height again as Hermione hurried to the portrait. "Anyone? It's us," hissed a low voice from outside. "Ron, Neville, and Harry."

"Neville, what was the plant you had on the train?" Hermione replied quietly – just to make sure.

"Mimbulus Mimbletonia," came a different voice, and Hermione tugged on the portrait. Harry, Ron, and Neville hurried inside – and following them were Fleur Delacour and Mrs. Weasley. Hermione's heart soared and flew into a sprint, while watery, wobbling relief filled her legs. Mrs. Weasley was safe. Fleur was safe.

Hermione hadn't realized how much she'd missed female company. Once the portrait was safely shut again, Hermione threw herself on Mrs. Weasley, who had lost a lot of weight. Fleur had gone from slender to nearly skeletal – her cheeks were hollowed out, as if someone had taken a spoon to them, and there were dark shadows beneath her mesmerizing eyes.

Hermione enfolded Fleur in a hug, too, after she reluctantly let Mrs. Weasley out of her grip.

"How are you? Are you all right?"

She was horrified to see Mrs. Weasley limping. "They got our wands," Mrs. Weasley said tiredly, "and one of my legs was... well, that's nothing for you to worry about, dear – the main thing is that I'm alive. And you're alive."

She took Hermione's face in her hands and kissed her on both cheeks, and then gazed fondly into Hermione's eyes.

"Where were you? How did they find you? Were you and Fleur together long?" Hermione asked frantically. She couldn't seem to get her heart to stop thumping as if Mrs. Weasley was still in danger.

"Calm down, Hermione," said Ron, cutting in. "Mum just needs... you just need some rest, don't you, mum?"

The pale, exhausted-looking Mrs. Weasley nodded, and both she and Fleur practically fell into bed. Hermione swallowed and stared at them both. The boys hadn't changed much, physically – but for the usually-plump Mrs. Weasley to be so small was quite alarming, and Fleur looked like she was about to die of starvation.

Hermione rounded on the three boys. "Where were they?" she asked.

"Charms room," Harry replied, sitting down with a satisfied sigh. "Said they'd tried to summon some food so many times, but they always had to end up running from it instead because Death Eaters kept finding them..."

"Fleur's been tortured six different times," said Ron hollowly. Hermione glanced at him. Ron always had had a bit of a thing for Fleur, which Hermione had always resented, but now she couldn't find herself caring about anything except the fact that Death Eaters had managed to capture Fleur on _six _different counts. She was a capable witch – how could she have let that happen?

"How?" Hermione whispered, horrified.

Harry shook his head. "Most of it was because of those damn Boggarts. She kept seeing Bill, of course – she lost track of him about three or four months ago; she can't remember exactly."

"Is she... is she all right? You know... in her mind?" Hermione desperately restrained herself from looking at Neville, who stiffened at her words. Harry nodded, and Hermione relaxed a little.

Harry said, "She hasn't been able to sleep, because whenever she sleeps, after a little while, she starts screaming..."

"And, see, neither of them have had wands in three days, so Mum couldn't Silence her, or anything. But Neville already did that, so we should be okay."

Hermione nodded, looked over at Fleur, and started. Fleur's mouth was stretched wide in a soundless scream, her eyes clenched tight shut, as if she were being tortured right then.

Six times. "Who hurt her?" demanded Hermione.

"The only time she can remember, it was that bloke Amycus and his sister," said Ron moodily, scratching at his chin. "You know, the ones that You-Know-Who stuck in here to teach."

"What were they trying to get out of her?"

"Where I was, of course," said Harry. "I hate this – I hate seeing all these people getting hurt because of me!"

Hermione swallowed. These were careful grounds to tread. Whenever Harry got temperamental about his saving-people-thing, there was always a large risk of him blowing up and yelling at everyone in sight. Ron just clapped Harry on the shoulder, saying, "Look – we've got this many people back already – I'm sure we can find everyone somehow."

Hermione sighed inwardly. _This many_? There had been _hundreds_ fighting the battle, and though most of the students had fled in terror before Voldemort had put up the wards, there were still probably fifty or sixty people in the castle who had either stayed to fight or just hadn't been able to make it out... There were eight people in the room. Two had returned from the dead. Two were protected by the Fidelius Charm. Three were sleeping off torture, starvation, and two of those three were unarmed. Only Neville was safe and sound of his own volition. Those were terrible odds.

There was another noise at the portrait hole, and five wands were instantly drawn.

Hermione crept silently to the hole, pressing herself against the wall beside it, listening for a voice, for anything.

There was a noise of a spell – probably _Alohomora_ – being cast on the portrait, and then a yelp of pain. Hermione looked questioningly at Tom. "The ward changes offensive spells into other hexes and rebounds them," he said under his breath. Hermione raised her eyebrows. That was an interesting bit of magic –

It sounded like whoever was outside was muttering to themselves. Angrily.

Hermione suddenly wished there were Extendable Ears lying around the castle – instead, she just cast _Sonorus_ on the portrait crack, and the voice amplified itself.

"...can't believe this, the _one time_ there's not a goddamn guard –"

"Hello?" Hermione whispered into the crack, and the voice stopped. Hermione cursed inwardly at having said anything – if it was one of their friends, they were probably getting ready to run – hearing a voice was _never_ assumed to be good in this Hogwarts. But if it were a Death Eater, did Hermione want to risk saying she was inside?

She made a split-second decision. "It's Hermione," she said quickly.

A strangled noise echoed in from the other side. "Hermione?" came the voice, clear for the first time.

It was a girl's voice, and at that word, Harry had something like a panic attack. He shoved Neville out of the way and wrenched the portrait hole open, flinging himself outside and wrapping his arms around Ginny Weasley.

"Ginny?" squeaked Hermione, unable to restrain herself. Something seemed to uncurl inside her, some knot of tension.

Harry and Ginny darted inside, and Neville shut the portrait hole. Before Ron, Hermione, Neville, or Tom could have the chance to look away, Harry and Ginny were kissing furiously, not seeming to care who was there. Then, after what seemed like an interminable amount of time, the couple broke for air and wrapped each other in a fierce embrace.

Ron threw his arms around them, too, and Hermione joined in. "Ginny," she whispered, and suddenly tears were welling up in her eyes. Ginny Weasley had escaped from Avery, and had stayed safe this _entire time._

The group hug was painfully tight, but they eventually released each other. No eye was dry. Harry and Ginny kissed again, more gently. "You're safe," he murmured. "You're all right. You're not hurt?"

"No, but I'm damned hungry," Ginny replied, a smile somehow finding its way onto her face, which appeared like it hadn't smiled in years. Her face was streaked with what looked like ash, and her red hair was stringy and messed-up, but she didn't seem to be hurt.

"Good thing we're in the Kitchens," said Ron. "How have you been? Have you seen anyone? Anything?"

"Besides a lot of rotten Death Eaters, not much at all," Ginny mumbled. "I thought I caught a glance of someone up on the sixth floor, but we honestly are quite good at hiding – so I haven't seen much else... I haven't spoken to anyone since Lee Jordan, and we got split up a couple months back."

"Where have you been hiding?" asked Neville.

"Prefect's bath, under the tiles. There are some really excellent charms on that bath. Temperature protection, of course – for the water – so it's never cold in there, or too hot, or uncomfortable. Wished the whole time I could just take a damn wash, though..."

Hermione laughed, and Harry let out a tremendous snort. Hermione was shocked that Ginny's sense of humor had somehow managed to survive this long. It was something Hermione had lost a week in. Ginny must have been pretty secure in her safety, to be as much herself as she seemed to be.

"So how long were you hiding there?"

Ginny shrugged. "I think about a month and a half. The food was a right pain in the arse to get a hold of, of course – I must've stolen half the storeroom one time, and that lasted for a while, but I had to keep sneaking down to see when I could get more, and there was always a guard standing there, so I ran out yesterday sometime. I really am all right – you four don't need to look at me as if I'm... as if... as if I'm..."

Her face paled, and she looked as white as a sheet all of a sudden. Her eyes fixed on something by the portrait hole.

Hermione glanced hurriedly over in that direction, and her heart sank. Tom leaned against the wall, staring idly into space. Of course. Of _course_ Ginny would be horrified by Tom's appearance...

"Can you all see him? It's not just me, right?" Ginny whispered.

"Don't remind me," Harry ground out, and Hermione shot him a reproachful glare.

Ginny said, "But... but that's... but..." Tom looked over and met Ginny's eyes, and she stumbled backwards, looking like she was about to throw up all of a sudden. "No. _No._"

Hermione saw something in Tom's expression clear as he realized who he was looking at. A muscle twitched in his jaw as his gaze flickered to the ground. Then Hermione intervened swiftly. "Ginny, I've... well, over the last seven months, I've been dead."

Ginny's head snapped back to Hermione. "But you're not a ghost," she said.

"Astute observation indeed. It's a very long and complex story, but essentially, Lord Voldemort cast Avada Kedavra on me and I've... managed to come back, and... and so has Tom."

The redhead looked like someone had dropped a hammer on her head. "But... how is he _here_?"

"He's the seven destroyed parts of Voldemort's soul," explained Hermione, "only they've been healed. Through remorse." Harry let out a disbelieving snort, and anger rose in Hermione, suddenly uncontrollable. "That is _enough!_" she snapped, rounding on him. "Stop being so... so _petulant, _Harry!"

Harry's gaze was stubborn, but Hermione did not look away. She gritted her teeth and stared right back at him until his eyes flickered to the ground, and then Hermione turned back to Ginny. "I'm sorry," she said quietly, "for the shock. I know it must be... bad."

That was a vast understatement. Ginny looked as if she'd just been accosted by an Acromantula.

She clutched her stomach, and groaned, "Food. I need food."

Hermione drew her wand and summoned a meal for Ginny, and then she stood, brushing back her bushy hair, casting a glance over to Tom. He raised an eyebrow at her. She closed her eyes and shook her head a little in exasperation, as Neville, Ron and Harry were all engrossed once more in conversation with Ginny.

If she'd known how impossible this was going to be, she wondered, would she ever have let her friends meet him? Would she have hidden him away?

Tom let out a moody sigh, twirling his wand lightly in his fingers. As he stepped away from the wall, Ginny froze mid-sentence, her eyes glued to him. Hermione said hurriedly, "Tom, could you come with me and see what's wrong with Mrs. Weasley's leg? She said something happened to it."

Riddle looked relieved at the request, and they made their way over to Mrs. Weasley's side. "If I remember correctly, the alarmed one would be the girl with the diary?"

Hermione nodded. "I'd just stay away from Ginny. She's only going to be unnerved if you try to be nice to her. Because, of course, when you were possessing her you were oh-so-pleasant as well..." Hermione gently unfolded the bottom of Mrs. Weasley's robes and pushed up her pant legs to the knee.

She frowned. There was a large scar right in the middle, and the leg there seemed almost dented, and then there was a bump below it. "Looks like it was broken," Hermione murmured. "Of course, she wouldn't have been able to fix it properly without a wand..."

"Is that even fixable, now that it's healed?" Riddle mused, reaching out a pale finger and placing it in that bizarre dent.

"The leg would probably have to get re-broken," Hermione muttered, thinking to herself. "But it would have to be the exact same break... and the scar tissue on the bone might – I don't know. And I can't even think of a spell that would do anything on something that's not technically a wound."

Tom shrugged, pushing his dark hair from his eyes. "Well, if she's all right, then she's all right. No reason to worry, right?"

"She's limping. That's dangerous around here."

"Not if she stays here. Not as if it's safer to be running around Hogwarts than staying in a place with food and protection."

Hermione bit her lip. "Well, that's true, I suppose... but she wouldn't be able to run if this place were attacked."

Riddle looked unimpressed. "What, can't she work a wand?"

"She doesn't _have_ a wand," Hermione pointed out. "And neither does Fleur."

Fleur had curled up on her side, and now a silvery stream of tears leaked out from under her eyes, her mouth slightly open.

"Does she need to be woken up?" Riddle asked with slight unease. "And how can they possibly do a thing without wands?"

Hermione groaned. "Oh, _damn_, if we hadn't snapped the wands of those Death Eaters yesterday..."

Riddle's expression cleared. "Well, then, it's obvious. We'll steal wands from the Death Eaters. Advantageous – removing their power and giving it back to... these... people."

He looked a little distasteful as he surveyed Mrs. Weasley and Fleur, and Hermione wondered why. The Weasleys were pure-blooded, after all – had been for generations – and Riddle wouldn't know Fleur. "Something wrong?" she asked.

He glanced back up at her, pausing. "I just find myself questioning their magical abilities, if they've managed to get their wands both confiscated and likely destroyed. In my time, girls never did duel – it was considered improper."

Hermione snorted with laughter. "I'll have you know that Fleur was a Triwizard Champion," she sniffed, "and Mrs. Weasley is a _very_ talented witch."

Riddle let out a nondescript noise and turned to George instead, who was stirring gently. "I think this one's awake," Riddle said.

Hermione hurried to George's side as he rolled over fully, his eyes sliding open. "George?" Hermione said. "You're still safe, in the Kitchens."

"Oh, blimey, good, you weren't hurt by the Death Wots-his-face," sighed George as he registered who was leaning over him. Then his eyes fell on the bed next to him. "Is that Mum?" he asked loudly, and sat bolt upright. "You've found Mum?"

"And Ginny," Hermione said with a smile. George's eyes widened, and he cast around desperately for Ginny's face. A triumphant grin broke out on his face. He ripped the covers from himself and scrambled to his feet. "And Fleur," added Hermione hastily, "but don't wake her or your mum yet – they've had a bit of a rough time."

George's smile subsided a bit, and he nodded. Then he bounded over to Ginny at the table, enclosing her in a tight Weasley hug.

Hermione pondered that perhaps, just maybe, things might have been looking up here, for the first time in a very, very long time.


	31. Chapter 31

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After three days, seven more people had been found. One was Professor McGonagall, to Hermione's immense relief. She was found with Professor Flitwick, and McGonagall was completely unharmed, but the same couldn't be said for Flitwick. His left foot was severed just above the ankle, and though he'd managed to heal it relatively quickly, he hadn't known any sort of spell to fashion himself a magical prosthetic, so he had just been hobbling around with a cane as quickly as he could – which, after some practice, was relatively fast.

Percy Weasley had been found in the library, and with him, Ernie Macmillan. Luckily, Percy and Ernie had both survived unscathed. Hermione didn't know how the blustery, conspicuous Ernie had managed to stay under the radar, but it became clear that he and Percy had been on the run, not staying in any particular place for long. Another person they had found was Hannah Abbott, and that discovery had been awful, for the girl had been driven out of her mind. She spoke to herself, wide-eyed, and she made no response when others talked to her. Hermione didn't know what to do, or how to feel. It was a sort of utter disbelief that this could actually happen to a student from Hogwarts, mixed with horror and sick rage. Hermione wondered how many others had met this same fate.

It was perhaps the last two discoveries that had brought the most tears – that of Luna, and then that of Hagrid. They had been together in the dungeons, quite near the potions classroom, and according to Luna, their escape had mainly been due to Bellatrix stalking off to try and handle everything herself, leaving Hagrid and Luna alone with Antonin Dolohov.

Hagrid was being gruff and very quiet about how much he'd undergone, but Hermione knew about a lot of it, and she was so glad that Hagrid had stayed himself. Luna, though, had gotten off almost easy, because she had held her breath until she fell unconscious every time that Death Eaters attempted to interrogate her. Eventually, they just assumed she was too weak to withstand their cursing, and left her dangling from the ceiling, easily revived by Hagrid after he'd put Dolohov out of commission perhaps permanently.

The band of fifteen people was quickly gaining confidence. At least one small group was always roaming the hallways, searching for anyone they might be able to discover, but Tom Riddle found himself with several problems, all with varying degrees of irritation.

First, nearly every single person mistrusted Riddle to the point of not even looking at him. Exceptions were Hermione, Longbottom, Luna Lovegood, and, strangely, Ron Weasley. Riddle assumed it was because Weasley trusted Hermione, and for that Riddle was almost grateful, for the stares and silence did tend to grate on his nerves.

Second, Harry Potter was attempting to take control of the situation, but Potter's frequent incompetence made Riddle wish that he could just do it himself.

Third, with every new person that arrived, he and Hermione had less and less opportunity to be with each other, especially alone. This was unacceptable. He felt as if he were floundering around in this sea of people, unable to get anywhere, unable to gain any sort of approval, although it had been he who had managed to uncover Luna and Hagrid. They'd created a false wall behind which they'd been hiding, and Riddle had dissembled it.

The Lovegood girl was an interesting character. Not untalented with a wand – and she had never been unpleasant to him, which was refreshing. Hagrid, on the other hand, had nearly snapped a table in half during one of his and Harry Potter's discussions, and the dubious glares that Riddle received in the same minute definitely indicated that he was the reason.

Unfortunately, they'd had visits from hungry Death Eaters, who were most curious as to why their attempts to open the portrait were met with magical repulsion. The first visitor, who was Amycus Carrow, was currently lying unconscious next to the storeroom, his wand safely clutched in Molly Weasley's hand. Apparently, though, he knew nothing about anything important, because Professor McGonagall had taken it upon herself to use Legilimency on him, and the most they were able to glean from it was that Mr. Weasley was alive as of several days ago. There was not even a whisper of where Voldemort was, or, really, where anyone was, at that moment. A couple other Death Eaters had tried to get through the portrait hole, cursed loudly, and just summoned the food outside, perhaps thinking that Hogwarts had managed to put up magical protection against them – which, Hermione thought, was stupid, for if they'd ever bothered to read Hogwarts: A History, they'd know that the magical protections of the castle were unchanging.

Hermione found herself less fearful as time went on. It was hardly a good thing – fear made one suitably cautious – but it was nice not to feel the painful constriction of terror whenever she left the Kitchens. She was so proud of Harry – he was organizing everything, sending out search parties night and day, and, not so wonderfully, refusing to let Ginny leave without him there. Hermione felt like she was in Ginny's shoes – the younger girl would always tell Harry not to worry, but he would staunchly refuse to listen, and it was exactly the same with Tom.

Hermione refused to admit how frustrating it was not to be able to do the smallest thing, like holding his hand. He hadn't brought up his own views on the subject, but she could tell he was having to restrain himself from being as jealous and possessive as usual.

With everyone as on edge as they were, though, Hermione felt as though she had no choice but to keep it secret. A majority of the group were all blatantly mistrustful of Tom. It was not a pleasant feeling for Hermione, seeing the people she loved shun the boy she loved, and with so many people now keeping residence in the Kitchens, she and Tom had hardly had a moment to themselves in three days.

Hermione had not spoken with Ron again. He seemed to be accustoming himself to the idea of not being with Hermione, but part of him seemed almost subdued, like every single second he was around her he had to restrain himself from raising the subject. The last thing Hermione wanted to do in this careful peace was to anger Ron.

The House-elf quarters were through a door on the right wall of the Kitchens, and past those were bathrooms. The group had put a multitude of beds in the House-elf quarters, whose ceiling was obnoxiously low and whose walls were peeling, but the fact that the House-elves had their own quarters at all cut down a little on the injustice, Hermione supposed. In any case, the space was large and comfortable, and the Kitchens became practically cheerful at the best of times. Optimism was high. Professor McGonagall had written a list of people known to be in the castle on a chalkboard near the storerooms, and though the list was disturbingly long, Hermione realized that they already numbered fifteen, and there were only a few over forty more. That, surely, was not a terrible amount?

Hermione marveled at how many people were still alive. In the first part of the huge battle, there had been so many losses, so many people hit by the Killing Curse, but it seemed now that the Death Eaters were more interested in torture and getting information about Harry out of them, and for that Hermione was almost grateful. Better to be in excruciating pain and come out alive than to be killed, after all, even though it might not feel like it during the Cruciatus Curse...

She swallowed and rolled over in her bed. Now that they had a larger group, Harry had assigned people regular watch hours at night. Hermione was on second watch – with Tom. Hermione had been glad at the news because of Tom, of course, but second watch was the worst. It meant going to sleep for an hour and a half, only to wake up again and stay up for two hours. Hermione couldn't seem to make herself fall asleep, and the hour and a half was almost up, anyway.

Sighing, Hermione rolled out of bed quietly, looking around at her sleeping companions. A warm rush filled her, one of utter gladness. _All survivors._

She tiptoed from the House-elf quarters back into the main Kitchens. Luna and Neville were sitting at the tables on first watch. "You don't have to be up for another ten minutes," Neville said quickly as he saw Hermione.

"I couldn't sleep. How are you?"

Luna stared off into the distance and said, dreamily, "I've been feeling very glad lately."

Hermione chuckled, sitting at the table. "Why's that?"

Luna's wide eyes were calm. "Things are always better if we stay together," she said.

Hermione couldn't keep the smile from curling her lips. "I think so too."

Then Luna frowned slightly, and said, "Hermione, I've been wondering about Tom Riddle."

"What about him?"

"He's not very happy, is he?" Luna asked vaguely, her finger toying with her one remaining radish earring. Hermione mused that it made her look a bit like some sort of bizarre pirate, especially with the deep scar above the girl's left eye.

"No," Hermione admitted, "he's not." Hermione hadn't thought that Tom had come off as melancholy or glum, just reserved. Then again, Luna always had been rather observant, hadn't she?

"Well, he's got good reason," said Neville. "You should hear Harry talking about him."

Hermione sighed. Tom could care less what Harry thought about him, but the real reason he was frustrated was also the reason Hermione felt almost constantly exhausted. "Shame," Luna said. "It was nice of him to find me and Hagrid like that."

"Luna," Neville said earnestly, "he's... he's _You-Know-Who_. I don't think I could call him _nice_." Then he looked at Hermione, and said hurriedly, "Sorry, Hermione."

"Oh, no – you're right," Hermione said. "Nice isn't the word." She sighed, running a hand through her hair. "But Harry is being... he won't even ignore him, which would be easier for everyone involved. He thinks Tom's a threat." They'd had a lengthy discussion about that, actually, and Harry had said he was point-blank refusing to let down his guard as long as a young Lord Voldemort was staying with them. It would have seemed reasonable, of course, if Hermione didn't know Tom.

Luna shrugged. "If he's saved me and Hagrid, and if he's stayed here and hasn't tried to kill Harry, I don't see what's not to trust."

Neville let out a huge yawn, covering it with his hand. "Should I go and wake him up?"

Hermione shook her head and stood up. "I'll go do it."

He was sprawled out on one of the beds, his face peaceful. Hermione looked around hurriedly, and then kissed him softly. As she pulled away, his eyes opened. He blinked a few times.

"It's time for our watch," Hermione whispered.

He nodded and stood, stretching. They slipped through the door again. Luna smiled and waved absentmindedly at Tom, who glanced down at Hermione questioningly. Hermione's lips quivered in almost-laughter. She'd have to explain some things about Luna Lovegood to Riddle, evidently.

Her arm brushed his, and Hermione restrained herself, even though she was so close to him again. Creeping through Hogwarts that day had been so much harder without his hand in hers, especially when he had been just feet away – it had hardly been bearable. Hermione had never thought that physical contact was so incredibly important, but being close to Tom just seemed to require being physically interlocked in some way. Going an entire two days without kissing him, especially when he was _right there_, seemed ridiculous when she thought about it. Ridiculous and unnecessary, in theory – but as Hermione looked back up at Luna and Neville, she remembered why exactly it was necessary.

"How did you sleep?" Neville asked, a hint at carefulness in his voice.

"Well, thank you," replied Tom, his tone demure and polite as ever.

Neville nodded. "Great – well, um, if that's... if that's it, I guess we'd better go sleep, then? Come on, Luna." He hurried into the House-elf quarters, Luna strolling along calmly behind him, and as soon as the door was shut, Riddle was kissing Hermione fiercely.

Hermione leaned into the kiss, wishing they didn't have to restrain it every single time they wanted to do this, and she grabbed handfuls of his robes, pulling him tight to her. His lips bruised hers angrily, and their faces seemed to melt into each other, as if there could be no space between them that was not too much. When they broke apart, Hermione looked up into his eyes, brushing back his hair, and murmured, "Merlin, I miss you."

The corners of Riddle's lips turned up slightly. "Say it again."

"I miss you," Hermione said, her voice throaty all of a sudden with emotion. Then, to her surprise, she found that Tom wasn't the only thing she'd been missing. She missed the other world. She'd never dreamed that would happen, but it had. She missed that unreal shimmer, missed the perfect weather, missed Melia's snowfalls, missed Dueling Club – and most of all, her friends. Catalina, Godric, Herpo, Revelend, Jared and Mungo, Miranda... Mina and R.J... but more than anyone else, Abraxas. She missed his blustery humor, his reassurances, the arrogant way he would flick his hair back, the cheerful grins – she missed everything about Abraxas. It was almost like leaving earth again, losing this entirely new set of people, and Hermione discovered that there was a significant gap in her heart where they were.

But she missed, too, being in a place where she and Riddle could be alone, where they could just be in each other's company without worrying about who was watching or listening or judging. There had been so much peace in the other world, peace that was never present here. There was always chaos in the Kitchens, always something to do or somewhere to go or something that needed planning or theorizing.

One of their bigger problems was that none of them knew where on earth Lord Voldemort was. He was inside the castle – the types of wards he had set up dictated that he had to be within their bounds – but that hardly narrowed it down. Hogwarts was huge, and there were any number of possible locations to hide a Dark Lord. Hermione had imagined it would be somewhere central, like the Great Hall, to stroke his ego – but according to Percy, the huge chains on the doors had vanished, and there was nothing inside anymore.

Hermione looked up into Riddle's inscrutable expression and sighed. He slowly moved around behind her and slid his arms around her waist. The feeling of his body finally returning to where it should have been was exquisite.

His lips pressed softly against her neck, and he pulled back her hair so that he could find her ear, laying kisses down the sensitive skin, his teeth finding light purchase on her lobe. Hermione slid her hands into his. "I wish they'd understand."

"I more than you," whispered Riddle, his arms tightening around her. "If there were a way I could force them to understand, that would be delightful."

Hermione flicked his hand lightly with her nail. "No," she said reproachfully. "I do hope you haven't attempted to force anyone into anything here."

She hadn't really been worried about that, because Tom seemed to be on Head-Boy-mode the entire time – but it wasn't impossible, she supposed.

"You have so little faith in me," came his voice lightly, and he withdrew his arms. "I have an objective: to garner the trust of your friends and acquaintances. Manipulation would hardly befit that."

Tom sighed. Actually, hardly anything could befit that motive, for it seemed impossible. Hermione probably didn't understand how awful it was. She was always busy with Harry, Ron, Ginny; constantly referring to people Riddle didn't know. In fact, the only name Tom consistently recognized was "You-Know-Who", and he usually received dark looks or strange glances then.

He almost couldn't believe his restraint thus far. The lack of subtlety endowed on these people was more than astounding; it was preposterous. Riddle had already imagined himself doing at least fifty various terrible things to Potter alone, but Potter was just the center of a circle of intense mistrust in the group. Everyone seemed to be abiding by Neville's rule, though – that they had worse things to worry about – otherwise Riddle assumed that they would have held some sort of meeting to discuss his presence in general.

The feeling was not entirely unlike the one he'd once had about Hermione – that he'd somehow estranged her even before he'd known her. It was a feeling of injustice, and one of mildly-apathetic irritation. It was conducive to a lot of hard thinking, though, especially without Hermione to help distract him from his thoughts, and Tom had been wondering what he would do with his second life. His return had been so improbable – the ties he'd had to earth had been unstable in the first place. Probably the only reason he had been able to return at all had been the remorse he'd felt, which still hadn't receded.

Tom turned Hermione gently, appraising her. She looked content, if a bit tired, and that was satisfactory.

They kissed for a while, spoke for a while. But the time was far too fluid for Riddle's taste. He didn't want the other people to come out of the House-elf quarters. He didn't really want them to exist. They were, for the most part, inconsiderate nuisances, and Riddle could do without them. If it weren't for Hermione, Riddle wondered if he'd be helping the others at all. They needed help, that was for sure – not a one had his magical skill, though Minerva McGonagall was admittedly formidable. Riddle saw why Hermione had been so distraught thinking that McGonagall had died – she was the invincible type.

Hermione froze, stiffening in his arms suddenly, and Riddle jerked away from his thoughts. "Something wrong?" he said quietly.

"I heard something," she whispered, her sharp eyes staring in the direction of the portrait. She separated from him slowly and approached the portrait hole, turning her ear towards it. As her small hand reached into her pocket for her wand, she whispered to Riddle, "Stand by the House-elf quarters. Be ready to wake everyone up."

Riddle backed up to the door, drawing his wand, his dark eyes trained on her hazel ones. Letting her walk towards the source of possible danger felt wrong. Wrong and stupid. Riddle's hand tightened on his wand handle as Hermione swallowed and tore her eyes from him, creeping up until she was right against the portrait.

Then the world erupted.

It seemed as if it were happening in slow motion, for some reason. Tom didn't know who the hell had cast the spell, but it broke through his ward, which in itself was hard to believe. Those wards were strong – not completely unconquerable, of course, because people needed to come inside and outside easily – but strong enough to thwart most efforts.

But this curse tore through the wards, and through the portrait, like they were cheap paper. A colossal fireball swelled from the portrait, a hideous tongue of flame, ballooning outwards and tossing Hermione backwards as if she were nothing more than a doll. Riddle's face contorted in instant rage, his lip curling in a snarl as he lunged forward and slashed his wand through the air. A tremendous whistle erupted from the air, and a stream of white light punctured the center of the inferno, sucking it away as if it had never been there.

Riddle grappled with the doorknob with his left hand, not taking his eyes from the dark smoke that slowly clouded the portrait. He stuck his head into the House-elf quarters and yelled, "GET UP!"

Just like that, there was chaos. Dark figures poured through the ruined portrait, and Riddle vaulted over the nearest table in an all-out sprint towards Hermione's fallen body. A big, burly Death Eater approached her, wand raised, and Riddle slashed his wand downward. The Death Eater was jerked backwards by the ankles, throwing him flat onto his stomach. Riddle glanced back at the House-elf quarters. The door burst open, the dozen others flooded out with wands in hands, and then spells started shooting around.

"POTTER!" yelled one of the Death Eaters, and Riddle nearly cursed. Why hadn't the Potter boy Disillusioned himself? What was he, an idiot? Now the Death Eaters would flock after him with disregard to the lives of everyone else in the room. Riddle thought his heart would stop as a jet of green light whizzed right in front of his face. He ducked and let out a shaky breath, finally reaching Hermione.

And then nothing mattered except that she wasn't moving. Riddle looked around frantically, but none of the Death Eaters was focused on him or Hermione – not with Potter in the room. He picked up Hermione and sprinted the short way into the storerooms, and, shutting the door behind him, he finally looked at her.

The entire left half of her face was blistering with a hideous red burn. Riddle sucked in a breath through his clenched teeth. The left sleeve of her robe was tattered and charred, and her left hand was as burned as her face. The only lucky thing was that her clothes had managed not to catch fire. There was a faint smell of something burnt – some of her bushy hair, on the left side of her head, seemed to have fused together. Riddle bit his tongue so hard it hurt, collapsing to his knees in desperation. He didn't know healing magic. Why the hell would he ever have needed to learn _healing_ magic? And – and now – everyone else would be fighting those Death Eaters, too preoccupied with the safety of the Potter boy to do anything for Hermione – what could he do?

Looking at the reddened skin of her face was painful. At least the skin was intact, but it was shiny and hot to the touch. Riddle slowly waved his wand over it, cooling the skin, and then ran water over it – that was what one usually did when they were burned, right? Put cool water on it?

He knew that the Infirmary had burn salve – it was fairly standard – but perhaps not in this Hogwarts, and there wasn't a way to get up there.

Riddle took her small hand gingerly. The back of it was glossy with burns; the palm was soft and pale. He closed his eyes. She'd probably been knocked unconscious from hitting the ground – from the looks of the swelling bruise on her right temple, she'd knocked her head quite hard on the stone floor. Well, even Tom knew that spell – _Episkey_. The swollen bruise receded.

Riddle swallowed. Hermione herself would know so much more about healing than anyone, but waking her up would hurt.

The noise from outside was insanely loud – explosions, screaming, the hissing and whizzing of spells, Hagrid's lumbering steps. There wasn't much time. If he wanted to help those people get out of this battle, he had to do something quickly – but, for God's sake, Tom Riddle wasn't one just to make a snap decision. That was the job for stupid, rash Gryffindors, not for someone who was supposed to have everything _under control_. This never should have happened in the first place, and a wave of anger rolled through Riddle. Whoever had done this to her – whoever had _dared_ to blast through that portrait hole – would be more than sorry. They would be _penitent._

With that, Riddle placed his wand gently to Hermione's chest and thought, _Ennervate._

She woke up screaming. Riddle's dark eyes widened, and he shushed her furiously, glancing over at the door. "You've been burned," he said quickly, "and I don't know what to do. Do you know spells for burns?" She was silent, putting her hand to the left side of her face, her breathing ragged. "Hermione?" he pressed.

Her mouth was slightly open, and tears were dripping from her eyes. As a tear dragged itself over her burn, her agonized expression seemed to contort even more. "I... I know a couple," she gasped out. Hand grappling for her wand, Hermione rolled herself onto her side. Riddle's hand clasped her right shoulder, steadying her. "They're here," she moaned. "The Death Eaters – they're outside – _Harry -_"

"I don't care about Harry!" hissed Riddle. "I care about _you_! _Look_ at you!"

Hermione swallowed. "It hurts. Oh, God, it hurts, Tom –"

His grip on her shoulder tightened. "Do the spells. Do them – go on –"

Her wand shook a little as she waved it over her face and hand. The redness seemed to dull a little, and with her next hurried spell, Hermione let out a low groan. The burn didn't fade. "What did you do?" Tom demanded.

"I just... I just cleaned it and numbed the... the hurting, a bit," she said, voice thick with receding agony, "so it won't scar. I can't do anything more than that, it needs paste – we've got to get out there, Tom -"

"No!" Riddle said instantly. "You're not going."

Hermione's face contorted into something close to anger, and then she winced as the tender red skin twisted up. "And I suppose you're not going either, if I'm staying here? No! I'm going to help my friends, and you can't stop me!"

"Then you're not getting out of my sight," Riddle said, and his hand slid into her numbed left hand, his fingers light on the burned skin. Hermione nodded and threw the door open, and then she let out a squeak of horror.

Every table was already ruined. Two were splintered completely; one was on fire; one had been flipped upside-down and there was someone hanging unconscious off of one of its legs, which was stuck up hopelessly into the air like the leg of a dead insect. Peruvian Darkness Powder clouded around the portrait, but smoke still billowed from the twisted frame, vanishing into the patch of blackness and then emerging on the other side. It looked as if there were ten or so Death Eaters, maybe a few more, and spells cracked and crunched into the walls in every direction.

Hermione cast her eyes around frantically for Harry. There he was – fighting alongside Ron, Ginny, and Professor McGonagall, right near the fireplace. They were facing three Death Eaters.

Harry ducked a brilliant blue hex, and Hermione could hear his voice yell, "Stupefy!" over the clamor. The spell narrowly missed its target and flew into that patch of darkness by the portrait.

Tom's hand gripped hers tight as they sprinted towards the battle. Hermione raised her wand, her heart pounding hard, her face feeling like it was drooping where she'd numbed it. She flicked her wand, and chains flew from the end, flinging themselves haphazardly towards a Death Eater who had managed to corner Neville and Luna. The Death Eater whirled and Vanished the chains, sending a jet of green light at Hermione. She dove to the side, shoving Tom out of the way of the light – even if it weren't a Killing Curse, one could never be too safe.

Hermione rolled back to her feet and fired a hex at the Death Eater. It connected, sending the dark figure spinning into a whirl of black robes. When he rose again, his mask had been cast off. It was Amycus Carrow – the torturer of Fleur Delacour, no longer unconscious and unarmed. Hermione frantically wondered where Fleur was – she still didn't have a wand – but Amycus looked insane, and he sent a jet of red light at Hermione, which she only narrowly managed to dodge. Where the hell had Tom gone?

Then a figure collided with her side, driving her out of the way of a jet of green light that she hadn't seen at all. Her heart hammered – she had been _that_ close to dying again, saved only by Tom's body knocking her back to the floor. He staggered to his knees in front of her, moving his wand as if it were a sword, parrying every spell and sending others whizzing towards the Death Eaters like insanely accurate missiles. One of his spells, which looked like a dark blue stream, connected with a _crunch_ right in the center of Amycus' chest, and the Death Eater toppled to the ground with a piercing cry of pain. Neville and Luna wheeled around in uneasy awe, and Hermione screamed, "LUNA!"

The blonde dropped flat to the ground out of instinct, and the green spell flew over her, colliding harmlessly with the wall.

Hermione stood, her wand shaking in her hand, and she started firing off spells, just as she had practiced so many times. Most missed or were deflected, but she was proud to see that one particularly strong _Impedimenta_ hit the shoulder of one of the Death Eaters that Harry was fighting, spinning the Death Eater off balance and knocking him to the ground.

The Peruvian Darkness Powder wore off, and the rest of the room became visible. Hermione realized that Amycus Carrow was no longer where he'd fallen – he must have dragged himself off towards the portrait hole – but that wasn't really an issue any longer, not when Avery and Bellatrix Lestrange forged their way to the front of the pack, both their eyes fixed on Hermione, their faces filled with glowing hate.

"I hope you scream loudly, Mudblood," hissed Bellatrix, and her voice seemed to carry over the explosion that suddenly occurred to the left, a blossom of fire in Hermione's peripheral vision. She felt fear flooding her – the attentions of Bellatrix Lestrange were not good ones to have.

Avery and Bellatrix lifted their wands simultaneously and attacked. Hermione shielded the Cutting Curse from Avery's wand and leapt away from the jet of red light from Bellatrix's, firing a Petrificus Totalus back helplessly. Her mind went blank – she couldn't think of any spells, none at all – this wasn't a classroom – this wasn't Dueling Club – _she could die –_

But then Tom raised his wand, and Hermione's fear seemed to drop away. Avery's right arm gave a sickening _crunch_ as it twisted violently. Hermione, disturbed, spared a glance at Tom – the side of his lip was lifted in an unnerving smirk. Bellatrix's features filled with even more rage, and she sent another Killing Curse in their direction. Hermione sidestepped it and shot a Freezing Charm at Bellatrix, but it was waved away by the crazed witch's wand.

"The Dark Lord does not take belligerence kindly, Mudblood," Bellatrix sneered, her thin lips twisting around the words with vicious pleasure, her eyes gleaming, her feet moving unsteadily as her wand fired spell after spell. "All he needs is Harry Potter... and after he's dead, then what will you do with yourself? You disposable filth?"

Riddle's face darkened, and he flicked his wand. Tendrils of stone from the Kitchen floor slid up Bellatrix's legs before she could stop them, encasing her in a webwork of fine rock. Then, as Bellatrix glanced down towards her feet, waving her wand fruitlessly over the bindings, Hermione flicked her wand, and her Stupefy blasted Bellatrix right out of the stone, sending her backwards into the fray. McGonagall spied Bellatrix stumbling ungracefully and shot a well-placed _Depulso_ into her stomach, and Bellatrix flew backwards –

Right into a jet of green light, fired by a still-masked Death Eater.

Things seemed to freeze piece by piece. First, the Death Eater who had fired the Killing Curse, Hermione and Tom, and McGonagall. Then, the people who could immediately see Bellatrix's body thudding to the ground. Lastly, everyone else. There was silence. There was stillness. Bellatrix Lestrange was dead.

_Bellatrix Lestrange is dead._

How was it possible? How could she be dead, just like that, just because she'd been repulsed into one of her own comrades' curses? How could Bellatrix Lestrange just _die_?

No one seemed to be able to move, and the silence was almost... almost _awkward_, as if no one knew what to say, or to think, as if everyone had suddenly lost the ability to duel.

"Get out," said Harry's voice defiantly, ringing clear in the silence. "Take her and get out."

But they did not. The other Death Eaters slowly turned from Bellatrix's body, and each of them started dueling ferociously again, as if they had been given renewed vigor by Bellatrix's death.

Neville suddenly let out a scream as a spell hit him, and he staggered backwards, sitting down hard on the ground. Blood started dripping from his mouth and he turned pasty with pain. Almost simultaneously, Flitwick was sent spinning through the air. His back collided with the stone wall, he fell to the ground with a thud, and he did not rise.

McGonagall looked positively murderous, and she seemed to gain back some of her energy, but everyone else was exhausted. Two Death Eaters had managed to knock out Hagrid near the beginning of the battle, George Weasley was lying unconscious slung over the leg of that upside-down table, and Neville, Fleur, and Flitwick were all unable to duel. The numbers did not look good, and as Hermione ducked another Killing Curse, she wondered how long it would be before the Death Eaters started sending Avada Kedavra at every one of their unconscious comrades.

Hermione swallowed, gritted her teeth, and threw _Incendio_ at the Death Eater who had cursed Neville, but she was not prepared for the curse which spun across the room at her. She felt it slice across her chest, as quick and painful as a hot brand, and then she sank to her knees. It dimly registered that in this world, if you were supposed to die, you just did. There would be no jumping from parapets and surviving. If you lost enough blood, you were dead, and there was no healing for the dead.

But she wasn't dying, she didn't think – there was just suddenly an immense amount of dark, hot blood soaking into her robes. The cut didn't seem to be deep. Just long, and just deep enough to draw blood from everywhere it had cut, and Hermione felt very faint as she reeled back and collapsed onto the floor.

Dim images swum through her vision, graying images. A face suddenly loomed in her eyesight. Tom. His muffled voice blared in her eardrums, a terse, loud word, but she couldn't understand him. She couldn't answer, either, because her mouth didn't seem to comprehend what her brain was telling it to do anymore. She was going to black out, Hermione realized with slow panic, but suddenly Tom's face was retreating, and his hazy figure was holding out an arm, and his wand was firing unbelievably bright blasts of color everywhere, anywhere, all over...

Hermione gripped onto consciousness as much as she could. It felt like hours that she lay there, Tom standing over her bleeding body like he was guarding her last breaths, and then other lights streamed across her vision from her immediate left – that had been Mrs. Weasley, Hermione remembered... and then Professor McGonagall, across the way... and figures streamed away through the portrait hole, and Hermione saw Tom's face turn back towards her, several faces towards her, but Tom was kneeling down beside her and the last thing she saw was his face, clear, only a few inches from hers, and then she was closing her eyes and she felt the numbed sensation of him holding her and kissing her, hard, and then she was out, swimming through ink, forging through velvet night.

xXxXxXxXxXx

Tom gritted his teeth, pressed his head to Hermione's chest, and let out an animal noise of pure rage. Her heartbeat was faint – but it was present, and that was what mattered, even with the front of her robes sopping wet and a big slash right under her collarbones...

He looked up, wiped the blood from his face, looked around for someone who could help – surely that McGonagall lady, or the Weasley woman, would know something – but instead he saw only blank stares. Something slid into place in his mind – they had seen him kissing her, seen him frantically brushing back her hair from her burned face. The secret was out. "Someone help!" he hissed, his eyes thunderous, glancing from face to face, and it was as if they'd been jerked out of a trance. Molly Weasley bustled over, and Harry, Ron, and Ginny hurried to Hermione's side.

"Burn paste," said Potter, as if it weren't completely obvious. Then he turned to the two Weasleys and Luna. "Is there anything left in the Infirmary?"

Luna frowned. "I was in the dungeons, so I couldn't say," she sighed, gazing at Hermione's massive burn.

Ginny said, "I went up there once, and everything's all messed up. There was a big fight there a while back. I don't think the Death Eaters actually took any of it out of the room, though – it's just that there's lots of stuff that's smashed and thrown all over the place."

"Does that make it unusable?" Ron wondered aloud, and Riddle shot him a scathing glance.

"If it touches something that's not its container, it changes the magical properties," Riddle said. Had these people ever even read Elementary Defensive Magicks? He looked back at Molly, who was pulling down the front of Hermione's robes a little to reveal a long, shallow cut. The skin around it was pasty and bloodstained.

The Weasley woman's wand trailed along the cut gently, and the blood around it slowly vanished. Riddle let out a long, slow breath, attempting to calm himself. She'd be fine. That cut was nothing life-threatening – it had just been... a shock, yes. And he'd gotten a bit out of control, afterwards, with the magic he'd been using... Fighting off the Death Eaters practically single-handed, while McGonagall and Weasley defended the fallen bodies of others.

Hermione's cut shriveled back, scabbed over, and then the scabs melted into pale new skin. Riddle sat down on the ground, glancing over at the portrait.

"If you were interested to see where their headquarters is, I presume the Dark Lord would be informed as soon as possible of the Lestrange woman's death," murmured Riddle to no one in particular.

Harry sprang to his feet. "Let's follow them," he said to Ron, who nodded. There was suddenly a deluge of volunteers to come along, but Harry shook his head. "We have people that need healing," he said, "and we're not going confront the Death Eaters. Me and Ron'll go."

Ron clapped Potter on the back and looked down at Hermione, and then sent one glance to Riddle, and Tom was surprised by how vengeful his blue eyes could get. Then the two boys climbed through the still-smoking hole in the portrait.

Riddle cast a glance around the room. Professor Flitwick seemed to have revived, and was fixing the gash on his cheek. McGonagall was putting out the table, which still smoldered halfheartedly. Luna helped Neville to his feet – the boy's mouth was still dripping blood. Riddle recognized the curse, and called, "Ms. Lovegood?"

Luna looked over at him in vague surprise. "Yes?"

"Let me fix that," sighed Riddle, getting to his feet. The countercurse was painfully basic; hadn't these people even attended a Defense Against the Dark Arts class? What were they doing at Hogwarts these days? He flicked his wand, and Neville's two front teeth, which had split in half, sealed back together with a strange hissing noise.

Riddle looked down at Hermione. He couldn't understand why she was so terrible at remaining intact. The Weasley woman cast several spells at her burns, each of which lessened the reddening and healed the skin slightly. "Would she be all right if there were no salve available?" Riddle asked quietly, and the Weasley woman glanced back up at him in surprise.

"Er... I would... I would guess so," she said, swallowing and nodding as she surveyed his face. A muscle in Riddle's jaw tightened.

"And what does that entail?" he said. Usually, the mild fear and disturbance in the woman's face would at least amuse him mildly, but it irritated him now. It was possibly the first time that instilling fear in someone wasn't amusing in the slightest. "Any scarring?"

"There shouldn't be scarring," she said, and she looked back down to Hermione. "Not with the correct spells, although it'll take a few days to heal it as opposed to a few hours."

Riddle nodded. "When will she be awake?"

Mrs. Weasley replied with an "Ennervate," pointing her wand at Hermione.

Hermione's eyes opened tiredly, as if she were reluctant to wake from her dead faint. "Mrs. Weasley," she said in a small voice, and struggled weakly to sit up.

Hermione looked around. Tom stood just beyond Mrs. Weasley, holding his wand in his hand, his arms crossed, and Hermione blinked, cold dread filling her as she remembered that he had kissed her. In front of everyone in this room.

And there was a displeased note in Mrs. Weasley's eyes that was very telling.

xXxXxXxXxXx

It was a tense hour before Harry and Ron returned, and when they did, they were breathless from running. "We heard them talking," Ron said. "I guess they didn't expect that we'd try to follow them right after this, but they said something about a hidden room in the Astronomy Tower."

"That's great," George said, clapping Ron on the shoulder. "Good thing to know, mate."

"I don't know what we can do to break in there, though," muttered Harry. "I don't want to make any of you come with me when I face him again. I'm ready."

Hermione was aware of the fact that neither Ron nor Harry was looking at her. In fact, both their gazes were very carefully trained away from her, Ron's eyes on his siblings, Harry's eyes on Hagrid, who was being healed by Mrs. Weasley. There was a nasty-looking color to Hagrid's skin that Hermione assumed was the effect of some sort of dark curse.

She didn't want to speak up, didn't want to risk Harry's eyes turning on her only to be filled with fury. Hermione hated seeing Harry angry, and it scared her.

"I can't believe Bellatrix is dead," Neville said quietly. Hermione turned to look at him instead, but he wouldn't meet her eyes either.

"Strange to think about," agreed Harry.

Hermione nodded, looking at the floor determinedly.

"Hermione, could I talk to you?" said Ron softly. Hermione's eyes flicked up to meet his, but they were shielded. She couldn't tell what he was thinking, and the room suddenly seemed far too silent for her taste, so to cut the silence, she said,

"Of… of course."

They hurried back into the storeroom as Harry cleared his throat and attempted to instigate conversation. Hermione's eyes stuck to Tom's, and his gaze reassured her, even as her heart pounded hard in fear. How could she and Ron just talk about this like two civilized people? This wasn't something that could be rationalized, something that could be taken head-on.

The door shutting felt like prison bars were sliding shut behind her.

"So," Ron's voice said, low, hurt.

"Um," Hermione said.

There was an unbearable silence, punctuated only by small noises from outside. Hermione stared at the flagstones, Ron at the wall. She wondered if he had any idea what he even wanted to say. "You're angry," she whispered.

"Yes," Ron said. He swallowed, and repeated, "Yes." Then he seemed to find his voice, and the words poured out in an embittered tumult. "I don't understand. I don't get what you're thinking, Hermione. He's _dangerous_. I was thinking we'd be all right if we just kept a safe distance from him, and maybe we could ask someone what to do with him once everything... once everything was all right again. I thought we were holding him at arm's length, for Merlin's sake." Ron let out a breath and dug his hand into his hair. "What the hell are you doing, snogging Lord Voldemort?" he said, his voice strained and shaking. "_We're_ supposed to be together, Hermione. We've always been supposed to be together. He – he's – he's _evil_. He's not _right._ He's just a murdering -"

"No, he's not!" burst out Hermione, unable to keep herself from doing so. She slowly met his eyes, and she said, "He's more than you know about him, Ron. I don't – I'm not trying to – I just don't... don't think you should... say things like that, without even -"

"He's _killed people!_" hissed Ron. "He's killed them, Hermione! He killed Myrtle when he was fifteen years old! He killed his dad and his grandparents before he even got out of Hogwarts! What more evidence do you need that he's just _evil_?" His voice was rising angrily, and Hermione shrank back, hating the part of her that told her Ron was right.

"Every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future," Hermione quoted, her voice tiny.

"Don't quote at me! You know I hate that!" Ron said loudly. "Don't act like I don't know what I'm talking about. He's demented! He's not normal! What if he hurts you? What do you expect me to do, just sit back and let him? If you're tangled up with him like this, he's only _going_ to hurt you."

Hermione's fists curled up. She glared at the wall behind him. His words had so much more truth than he knew, had so much more history than he knew. Tom had hurt her terribly. But she'd healed, and he wouldn't do it again... he'd said he wouldn't...

She swallowed. She couldn't have doubts in Tom, not now. This was not the time or the place for doubts. "And you said things changed," growled Ron. "You said... you said things _changed_, like something happened to you – I thought something happened to you that you couldn't – I didn't think -" He broke off, scratching his nose, taking a step back and looking around hopelessly. "I can't believe you would let me go for _You-Know-Who_," murmured Ron. "I... this doesn't even..."

"It wasn't a _choice_, Ron. It wasn't a decision. I can't control everything." Her words were bitter with truth. She couldn't control her own feelings, she couldn't control her own life, or her death – she couldn't even control whether Tom could hurt her or not. And she couldn't control how much Ron was hurting right then, not with anything she said or did, because she knew that nothing could make it better.

"How long have you two been at it?" Ron whispered.

Hermione shook her head. That other world was so far away, time dead and antiquated. "Maybe six weeks."

"And what all have you done? You know, physically?" Ron asked her, like he was masochistic. "I'm not telling you that! It's... it's not for me to talk about with y – with _anyone!_" What would she say if this were Ron in her situation, if this were her with a broken heart? She'd already be crying. He looked blank, but at her words, a spark of anger flared up in his face.

"It's not for you to talk about with me?" he said, his voice low and quaking. "Yes, it is, Hermione, since I'm the one you tossed away like any old piece of trash – you owe me enough, you should... if you still even care about me at all, of course -"

"Ron!" Hermione said shrilly, and she was shocked to feel tears coming to her eyes. She put the back of her hand to her nose, breathing in through her mouth to calm herself. "Stop it," she managed after a second. "I haven't done anything wrong!"

"Oh, 'cept for fooling around with the same bloke that murdered you, and Harry's parents, and half the people we know?" spat Ron.

"I'm not fooling around!" Hermione said wildly, and she felt a panic attack coming. Her heart constricted, her breaths came short, and her palms sweated as she clutched onto a shelf behind her. She battled against an impending breakdown, one of the more fruitless fights she'd had.

"Well, then, what the hell _are_ you doing?" Ron asked. His voice swelled. Louder by the second. "I don't know what you're doing, so unless you'd care to let me in on the secret as to why this isn't completely wrong in every way, I'm – I'm lost! How about you tell me, huh? Tell me!" And then he was yelling, and Hermione couldn't look at his face, his ears as red as she'd ever seen them, the cool air suffocating. "I WAITED FOR MONTHS FOR YOU!" he yelled, and Hermione quailed backwards, her jaw set, her eyes unable to shut. "What did you do? Just forget about me like this was nothing? BECAUSE IT WASN'T NOTHING TO ME, HERMIONE!"

Her tears were running in earnest, now, and Hermione's legs betrayed her as she sagged against the shelf. She had no support whatsoever, and that look on Ron's face wasn't going away. "AND OUT OF EVERYONE – OUT OF ANYONE – IT'S HIM! HE'S TRYING TO KILL HARRY! DON'T YOU GET IT? HE'S TRYING TO KILL MY BEST FRIEND! HE KILLED MY BROTHER! HE KILLED SIRIUS AND DUMBLEDORE!"

Ron's teeth were practically bared, and he sucked in deep breaths through his mouth, shutting his eyes tight as if trying to get rid of a memory. "I'm going," he seethed. "I never thought I'd be able to call you _stupid_, Hermione."

The door slammed.

Hermione sank down to the floor, letting her sobs out more audibly. Her shoulder dug into a sack of potatoes.

It was a while before the door opened, and when Tom slipped inside and shut the door, Hermione's distress doubled. "Did – did he say – anything to you?" she sobbed. He sat next to her and pulled her tight to him.

"Doesn't matter," he murmured. "He doesn't know what he's saying. Idiot." The words sounded vindictive, but they somehow soothed Hermione. If Ron really didn't know what he was saying, maybe... maybe he just needed time to cool off, to rationalize. Maybe everything would be okay.

But that was, as Ron had said, _stupid_. Nothing was okay. Mrs. Weasley would never forgive her. Would Harry ever forgive her? What about Ginny?

Hermione dug her face deeper into Tom's shoulder, his familiar smell engulfing her. He hushed her, holding her almost lightly, like he was afraid she'd burst open. "This is why I don't get close to people," he said quietly.

Hermione hiccupped miserably. "Sure," she whispered, her voice defeated. "Fine, Tom. You win. It's easier not to care at all. You're right."

"I know. But if it would mean you were happy again, I think I might rather be wrong."

She let out a strangled sob, putting her arms around his waist, hugging his solid body as if there were nothing else. There were no more words in her. She almost couldn't believe it had just happened. Everything she'd been afraid of, all the hate, all the fear, all the loathing, directed at Tom – and now... and now at her?

xXxXxXxXxXx

The next two days was a mad scramble to reorganize thoughts, to reorganize actions. The day after the battle, five people were found around Hogwarts, and the day after, eight. Most were injured, delirious, or starving, but made a good start on recovery with the help of the original fifteen.

As for Tom and Hermione – no one said anything to her directly, which was both a relief and incredibly frustrating. The reason, though, was that everyone in the Kitchens was aware that other issues took precedence. Harry was practicing his wandwork day and night, and Hermione had offered to help him, but it had been clear who was first on Harry's priorities list, because Harry didn't even look at her – just gave a terse shake of his head to answer. Hermione refused to let herself feel hurt by Harry's brusqueness – after all, they were planning the last attack on the most terrible Dark Wizard of all time. It was not the time for wrenched feelings and relationships that could never be the same.

They planned the attack for the laziest hours of the afternoon, when the Death Eaters would least be expecting it.

The torrents of worry that barraged Hermione had many sources and many reasons, but one of the ones which unnerved her the most was her unresolved hypothesis on what would happen to Tom when – or if – Voldemort was killed. It was a large concept to wrap her mind around, that was for sure. Tom was seven of eight parts of the original Tom Riddle's soul, whereas Voldemort was only one – when he died, surely Tom would be about as affected as if Voldemort had been a horcrux or something? Did it work that way, though, since Voldemort was the original source of Tom's existence? Did Tom's reappearance on earth mean that technically Voldemort still had a horcrux, and couldn't die?

Hermione took a deep breath and tried to tell herself not to worry, but really, what else could she do? If – and the thought destroyed something in her – Tom was going to be killed in the pursuit of Voldemort's death, how could she spend her last – her last _eighteen hours_ with him? For it was eight in the evening, and the next day, at two o'clock in the afternoon, things would be over, one way or another.

The dread was a stone in the pit of her stomach.

Harry waved his arms from the hearth, and everyone gathered around, silence falling slowly.

"Everyone," Harry said, "this... this is it. I'm going to go through what we're going to do one last time, but before I do, I just want to tell you all exactly how proud I am to... to have shared my life with you, if things don't -"

He broke off, swallowing. Ginny's hand found his shoulder, and he glanced at her with gratitude. "If things don't work out the way I've got them planned," Harry finished.

Harry stepped back, revealing the board that McGonagall had conjured. It had a few small diagrams drawn on it, which Harry referred to as he spoke. "All right. It's pretty simple, I think," he said, pushing his glasses up on his nose. "The thirty of us will leave here tomorrow well-rested, well-fed, and as well-prepared as we can be. The Astronomy Tower isn't a terribly large area to search, even though I'm pretty sure Voldemort's not just going to be sitting around in some classroom. He probably has a secret chamber somewhere, but we're not going to split up to search for it. If we see any stray Death Eaters, we'll knock them out, tie them up, and break their wands – I don't want us to have to take any chances, especially when so much is at risk anyway."

He cleared his throat and flexed his fingers, looking around at the group. "So – so we have something – some_one_ – Voldemort doesn't know about. Actually, two people, and that's Hermione, and..." Harry swallowed. "And Riddle. So our plan is to use that surprise as an initial distraction against Voldemort."

Hermione nodded. Harry had roughly outlined this idea with her and Tom. It had been a brief and uncomfortable discussion.

"So once we find the place, Riddle is going to walk in. Voldemort will probably order no one to attack him, but if he does get attacked, then the rest of us will … will stream in and stop any Death Eaters from hurting Riddle, if they try to. We just about match them in numbers, I think, since only Voldemort's closest are still here."

Harry paused again, and his green eyes were filled with reluctance. "If I had it my way, you all would just stay here, and I would go. But that's not... not realistic, so – so, anyway, I'll do what I have to do, and that'll be it."

There was a ringing silence. Hermione looked around at the silent, stoic, harrowed faces of the Order, and felt a pang inside her. She bit her lip as Harry said, "Any questions?" His voice was a murmur, now. Hermione's throat tightened as her eyes fixed on Harry's face. Courage.

"Think about it," Harry murmured, turning his head. "This time tomorrow, we could finish this. We _can_ finish this. This time tomorrow, Lord Voldemort could be dead, forever."

He was most determinedly not looking at the young Lord Voldemort who was standing at the back of the group.

Tom sighed. The idea of the other Voldemort being gone brought him so much relief. It would be so much unnecessary stress just _gone. _There would be a foreseeable future again, and he could get back to his usual anticipatory mindset once more.

Tom didn't know what to think about this plan. Potter seemed determined to be self-sacrificial, which was reasonable, to a certain extent, given the history between himself and the Dark Lord. On the other hand, though, there wasn't any reason for Potter to go and kill himself, really. Riddle had watched him practice his spellwork, and it wasn't bad. Not bad at all, actually, especially the more offensive magics – Potter was a powerful spellcaster. He just didn't have the catalogue of magical knowledge that he would need to face Lord Voldemort with any sort of adequacy.

Riddle sighed moodily as the group dissipated. It had nearly doubled in size in the last two days thanks to redoubled search efforts – Potter had supposed that it would be better to hit soon after Bellatrix Lestrange's death, for maximum shock value. They had needed more people, though, and those people had seemingly been tugged out of the very cracks of the school walls. Another Weasley, for a start – one with terrible scars on his face, the husband of that Delacour girl. It made nearly the entire family; the only one missing was the father, about whom everyone seemed extremely concerned. Some other brother, named Charlie, had apparently not been trapped in the castle after the initial fray, sent to send some message to part of the Order elsewhere.

A very reassuring arrival had been a tall black wizard named Kingsley Shacklebolt. Everyone seemed to gravitate towards him for reassurance – another capable spellcaster.

Riddle longed for privacy. He detested this hectic mess, detested everything about this situation, detested that Hermione couldn't look at Ron without flinching, detested the nervous terror hanging in the air. He almost wished he could just go, kill the other Voldemort, and get it over with, but Riddle knew that it was dangerous to underestimate his other self. Especially when he was really the only person who knew what he was capable of.

"Tom," said Hermione's voice from behind him. He turned to face her, and was puzzled to find a nearly stricken expression on her face. She hadn't really looked _happy_ in a while, of course, but she was looking like – she was looking like she knew something terrible was going to happen.

"Hermione," he replied. They walked to a corner away from the hubbub, a relatively secluded corner. "What is it?" Riddle asked.

"I'm scared about tomorrow," she said.

"What about it?"

Hermione shook her head hopelessly and leaned against the wall. "Everything," she said. "I'm scared Harry might die. I'm scared I might die. I'm scared everyone here might die. I'm... I'm scared that if Harry... if Harry does kill Voldemort, you'll die too."

Riddle's jaw tightened. It wasn't... it wasn't impossible. His nimble mind flicked through the possibilities, weighing the likelihood, and he decided not to say anything after a quick conclusion. "Well, you don't have to worry about you being killed, at least," he said instead. "If I were Voldemort, which I am, I would prefer to question you about how you came back from the dead rather than just killing you. If, in hypothesis, Voldemort doesn't die in this attack."

Riddle toyed with the handle of his wand with his left hand, his right hand loosely interlocked with Hermione's. She didn't look reassured at all.

"If this is the last time I have with everyone here," she said, "I wouldn't even know where to begin. I don't want to say any goodbyes, of course, because I do believe we can make this – I really think it's possible. Especially... especially if we have you."

"You have me," said Riddle calmly, not quite sure how to address everything else she'd said. He thought for a few seconds, and then said, "Perhaps, just in case, you should tell them how you feel."

Hermione closed her eyes and exhaled. "Yes," she said. "Just in case." Then her eyes opened, and they were filled with a wary strength, an embittered resignation. "Shall I start with you?" And her voice had a quiet burn behind it.

Riddle raised one eyebrow. "It would be a pleasure," he said.

Suddenly, Hermione froze, and then she seemed to be fumbling for words. "I... it's just..." She cleared her throat, took a breath, and started again. "I don't think I could possibly say everything I need to, not even if we had all the time in the world." Her fingers tightened around his. "I wish we had all the time in the world. You're the most... the most fascinating person I've ever met."

Her earnest expression cut to Riddle's core for some reason. The words were so starkly honest, a final letter, an epitaph. "I have loved you for... I don't know how long," she said. "It feels like it's been forever, and also like it hasn't been any time at all, and like it could go on forever."

She paused, then, and a bit of a smile made its way onto her face. "It's strange," she whispered, looking down at the floor. "You'd think more would come to mind than just 'I love you'. Something more substantive. Something as to address the fact that you're Tom Marvolo Riddle, and I'm Hermione Granger. But I can't think of anything." Something that may have been a nervous laugh worked its way from her lungs, and then she looked up and she met his eyes and she said, "I love you."

Riddle's mouth dried up, a strange reaction. He drew Hermione close and tight, leaning his back against the wall, holding her like she was trying to get away.

"I'm not going to say goodbye to you," Hermione said, and her voice was close against his ear. "I don't think I could if I tried."

"We were meant to find each other," Riddle murmured, "so we weren't meant to leave each other. No need to say goodbye." He felt like the words were coming from someone else's lips. They sounded so sentimental that he felt like he should have been saying them to pander or to wile, to deceive, but they were devoid of malcontent.

Tom Riddle closed his eyes, swallowing. He knew this couldn't be goodbye. He wasn't letting it be goodbye.

Why, then, did it already feel like part of him was mourning?

xXxXxXxXxXx

Hermione's hand felt shaky as she placed it on Harry's shoulder. As his head turned, his green eyes met hers with a shock. Hermione bit her lip, a reel of images streaming through her head. Harry winning his first Quidditch match. Harry showing her a blank diary. Harry fighting off a hundred Dementors. Harry in the tent before the First Task. Harry stalking down the hall in the Department of Mysteries. Harry frustrated with his attempts at Occlumency. Harry standing at his parents' grave in Godric's Hollow. She'd grown up with this boy, and he with her – how could he die? Surely that just wasn't... _possible_?

He was sitting at a table, Ron next to him. "Can I sit down?" said Hermione, her voice small. Her eyes flickered over to Ron, who was staring at the table. There was no malice in his face, though. He looked drained, hopeless, sick.

"Sure," Harry said quietly.

"I just wanted to say thank you," said Hermione, feeling tears burn at her eyes. She forced them back. "Thank you for being my friends."

Ron looked up, and this time he held her gaze. His mouth quirked to the side, and he shook his head blankly.

Harry said, "Don't thank us, Hermione."

She swallowed misery. "Okay. I... we've been through... so much, I just wanted to – just in case."

Ron's mouth opened, but it was a long pause before he managed to form words. "Yeah," he said shortly. Then, "I'm glad we've had each other," he muttered. "Through everything."

Hermione sniffed, and she wiped her eyes as quickly as she could, nodding fervently. "You're the best friends I could ever have had."

"And you two're mine," said Harry.

Hermione couldn't restrain herself, examining the faces of the boys. She let out a hopeless sob. "Oh, God," she said, "I'm – I'm sorry – it's just -"

A hand found her shoulder, a warm, reassuring hand. Ron's hand.

"Listen," he said. "It – _that_ – that doesn't matter right now." He took a shaky breath, removing his hand from her shoulder and running it through his flaming red hair, a painfully familiar gesture. "If everything turns out how it should tomorrow, I'll probably go back to caring and all – but for now, I'm just glad we've been together." Another pause. Hermione couldn't make herself fill the silence with words. She was finding it hard to breathe, and Ron's next words all but broke her heart. "I'm glad I met you two, and I'd be proud to die for either of you."

Hermione didn't think she'd ever heard more mature – or more terrifying – words from his lips.

Harry's expression hardened into resolve. "I won't let that happen. I swear to God you'll make it through this." His green eyes shut, and he looked for a second like he was praying. "I swear," he murmured, pursing his lips tight together, if only to keep them from quivering.

The hug was quiet acceptance, an embrace of forgiveness and of preemptive heartbreak.


	32. Chapter 32

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* * *

Hermione almost expected not to wake up that morning. It was almost like the day couldn't come, the day when Harry James Potter would fight Tom Marvolo Riddle.

She did, though, and she found herself held in Tom's arms, and for a second she couldn't remember how he'd gotten there. But of course – after staying up until after everyone else had trickled away to bed, they'd walked hand-in-hand into the house-elf quarters. Then Hermione had slowly lain down in bed, and Tom had placed a possessive hand on her shoulder and leaned his head into the crook of her neck and kissed her until she was too exhausted to remain awake.

All that was icy and surreal now, though. Everything was a shade of the past, and what was alive just then was a flaming scene, everything alight with vivacity. Every breath of Tom's that slowly landed on her cheek was a slap; every corner of light inching its way around that door was a searing brand.

And Harry Potter, very soon, would be a killer or would be dead.

Hermione closed her eyes, her hand moving to rest on Tom's. It was warm, dry, relaxed.

"You're awake," he murmured.

"Yeah," she whispered, not even surprised by his low voice in her ear. She just felt a rip, a tear at the inside of her, as that idea swam through her mind again. Suddenly, against her will, she was picturing it. Voldemort was falling to the ground, and then the person two feet from her, standing in that darkened stone room, was just fading away, his eyes meeting hers, his face still too unused to emotion to show her – to tell her – even as they would never see each other again –

Hermione found that her hand was gripping Tom's very, very tightly. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"Everything."

"This isn't."

He fastened his arms tighter around her, and her hand slid up his forearm, feeling the shape of his creation. Hermione's brain couldn't ignore the images it was sending her, images of things that had happened. His cold eyes as he'd said, "Legilimens;" that day when he'd cursed himself in the dungeons; all those days she'd idled over him and knitted him back together – and then images of things that had never happened, and those were worse. She and Tom, sitting in some nondescript room, older, lines on their eyes and creases in their faces, aged sparkles in eyes – she and him, rings on their fingers and never looking back – she and him, in each other's arms back in front of her parents' house, and worst – she and Tom, smiling. That smile she'd seen maybe three times in her life. She and Tom, smiling, surrounded by her friends – Harry and Ron, with those familiar grins on their lips. Ginny's mouth spread wide in a smile. Mrs. Weasley smiling kindly at her, which Hermione didn't think would ever happen again.

Then things that could happen, and Hermione trembled slightly and focused on his chest against her back, focused on the fact that this might be the very last time he could hold her like this. Quiescent inescapability rocked her to the core. Fate surely wanted her dead, or miserable. She'd come back to life, and so had he – but that hadn't been meant to happen, then, had it? Death was not something to be mastered, and surely there were consequences, and Hermione felt hollow thinking about what those might be.

She closed her eyes tightly and her jaw tightened. She could make it through this. She and Tom could make it through this. Surely Voldemort wouldn't dare kill someone who'd managed to come back to life, not without questioning them extensively. Surely Voldemort wouldn't kill _himself_.

The morning ticked by, and people bustled in and out of the room. The entire place was filled with more than nervous energy. It was barely-contained panic, bursting at the seams, crying for release, sobbing, screaming, pounding at every one of them until they were beaten into a helpless daze – and that daze, the daze of pure fear, was mighty.

Eventually Hermione felt hunger fill her, but she couldn't bring herself to move from his arms. The feel of him against her felt like it had only arrived just then, with no prior instance. When it was gone, could that feeling ever be recreated?

Tom's voice shook her out of that state of mind. "Let's get breakfast, Hermione," he said quietly, and he lifted her and set her on her feet. His pale fingers ran their way through her coarse hair, while his other hand rested lightly on her cheek. Hermione felt that familiar sensation of breathlessness, but it, too, was missing something. Everything was missing something. Nausea replaced it.

She couldn't seem to make herself look away from him. It was hardly new, that, but it was more pronounced than it had ever been. Her eyes were stuck to his face, to every line of him, every defining boundary of Tom Marvolo Riddle. The face that had undergone such evolution in her psyche that it was hardly recognizable as a face anymore – it was a definition, now, its own self. Tom Riddle, a concept that had burned its way into her forever.

Hermione swallowed and followed Tom into the quiet, tense atmosphere of the Kitchens. It was brighter in there, a shaded gray as opposed to black, and faces, pale and drawn, swam all around like phantasms waiting to realize themselves. Hermione wondered if she looked like that. She wondered if there were any reason she shouldn't look like that, like she was on the brink of hysteria, like she was about to lose everyone and everything.

Hermione's eyes gazed in wonderment as she and Tom took seats alone at a table. Ginny's hands were clasped tightly around Harry's, her face reassuring. Harry himself looked almost murderous. Ron looked ill. Luna looked sad, and Neville looked like he was about to keel over in a faint.

There were so many faces around her. So many associations, so many memories, so many words she'd shared with them, but now that she sat there, feeling as if it was the end, Hermione felt as if she'd never really said anything that mattered enough.

xXxXxXxXx

It was hard to be quiet when there were almost thirty people walking down the hallways. None of them spoke, but the quiet shuffle of each of their robes and shoes turned into an amplified _shh_ on the stone. Wands were in hands. The herd, the mass, the crowd was Disillusioned, and Hermione and Tom were buried in the middle, hands in unity, waiting for his entrance to be made.

Harry was buried in the middle of the group, to his anger.

They encountered two Death Eaters, Mulciber and Alecto, and they left them hidden in a locked classroom, suspended in mid-air behind a false wall without wands and unable to move. In short, extremely disabled.

Tom felt very... very mortal. It was strange, being inside a united force, not leading it. He flexed his wand a couple of times, mentally steeling himself to encounter Lord Voldemort.

_I am Lord Voldemort._

Passionate anger flowed through him, anger at Voldemort. Everyone, Riddle mused, had probably felt anger against the Dark Lord at some point. He was just joining in, Hermione linked to him on the left, a shaking shoulder brushing his on the right – he didn't know who that was.

Tom glanced over at Hermione. Suddenly, amid the noise of robes, there was a quiet whisper. The words were indistinguishable, but Ron had appeared next to Hermione. Riddle wondered why he needed to speak to Hermione – she'd said they'd sort-of reconciled the night before – but she seemed too happy for words that he'd approached her, and Riddle was genuinely surprised to realize that he didn't care a bit about Ron Weasley. Not when he knew that Hermione would turn to him first, choose him, love him.

That realization was as rational as any he'd ever had, but it felt new. There was no jealousy, and in that second he realized he had everything he wanted. Ability. Potential. Her.

Now he just had to keep a hold of it.

The walk to the Astronomy Tower was hardly a long one, but it felt like hours, with breath strung tight as an executioner's drum skin. They entered, and before long, quiet spells were flying around, anti-concealment spells, and it was probably about two o'clock in the afternoon when a large, iron door appeared in the wall, a wall that had a window looking out over the grounds, a wall that logically could not have held a room at all, and yet there was the door.

The crowd moved aside as Tom walked to the front, removing his Disillusionment. He felt something strange – a quiver just below his knees. Irked, he straightened up and shook out the sleeves to his robes with a familiarly, reassuringly arrogant sigh.

His eyes met Hermione's.

He wondered if he should tell her he loved her. He wondered if this were the time or the place. He wondered why he was about to put his life on the line for all these people, but then he didn't really wonder at all, because he knew it was for her.

A pale hand on the doorknob. It wasn't locked, because who would be idiotic enough to enter?

Tom Riddle walked into the room.

It was dark and very long. There was a fireplace halfway down the wall, in front of which stood a tall, spindly chair with a tall, spindly man sitting in it. A man with such a face that Riddle stopped breathing for a heartbeat. The flesh of Hermione's nightmares, of her memories.

The room wasn't very full. There were perhaps a dozen people lurking in its depths, and each seemed absolutely stunned by the audacity of some child walking in as if he had every right to be there.

But Voldemort knew that Tom Riddle had every right to be there.

Voldemort knew.

He rose to his feet, and lifted a hand. Many wands flickered down to face the ground from their antagonistic positions. Riddle found himself silently appreciative of the absolute control Lord Voldemort had over these people. Whoever they were.

Voldemort did not seem to have words.

"A clever trick, creating you," he finally said, and watching that lipless mouth move was like watching an old man chew. Chewing on those words. Spitting them out with cold, high-pitched distaste. "I'd suppose they want me to shoot spells at you, although I can't be bothered to lower myself to such a level."

Riddle shrugged. "You might want to consider it," he said frostily. "You appear to be under the impression that I'm some sort of incantation. I'm not."

Lord Voldemort seemed almost amused. He swept around with magnificence, around the room and then back to his chair, commanding every inch of attention, though the young, lean, dark boy feet from him was contending for that attention with mighty effort just standing there. "Of course, you speak, as well," Voldemort said casually, sitting back down gently in his spindly chair, his long fingers wrapped around the arms like they were throats.

Riddle viewed his older self impassively, with curiosity. "I always wondered how I'd end up grown-up."

Voldemort blinked, his red eyes piercing. "And how do you feel, after all that wondering?" he said. "You should tell whoever conjured you that I am rather impressed by their spellwork." Voldemort drew his wand and tapped it lightly on the chair arm. "I wonder if it would hurt them if I were to cast a simple little curse on you," he said. His voice was dry and creeping, and Tom Riddle found himself watching his older self's wand very, very carefully. This was dangerous. If Voldemort thought that Riddle was only an illusion, he could be inclined to attempt to curse him. And though Riddle, with his decades of uninterrupted study, was completely confident in his ability to defeat anything and anyone, facing himself did send a mild shiver of apprehension up his back.

Watching the lithe movements of the older Voldemort was mesmerizing. The way he spoke. The way he even breathed and blinked, like everything was calculated. One could tell from looking at this man that he had everything figured out.

Tom Riddle drew his wand slowly. "Tell me," he said softly, "the fourth of Quinbred's Principles."

Voldemort said, "No spell may cast spells of its own without outside control."

Riddle flicked his wand, and an intricate webwork of flame sliced its way through the dark air, highlighting stones in red and washed-out orange, making the rough pitted and the pale spectral. There was a pregnant pause, and then, "I don't suppose you believe that no one's lending me control," Riddle said quietly.

"No," said Voldemort.

"In that case, I wonder how I could possibly convince you of my existence. I wonder how I could possibly convince you that _I am you_."

At Riddle's words, strangled breaths were breathed from many a Death Eater. This was how Voldemort had once looked? It was not common knowledge.

Tom's heart had slowed back to its regular pace. This conversation was almost civilized. Controlled, at the very least – no spells flying everywhere without cause.

Voldemort surveyed his younger self almost greedily in the dark of the room. "If you are, in fact, me, I'd be curious to understand the possibility of your being here."

"I believe I can convince you," Riddle said, realizing how. "With one name." And he suppressed the memory with all his might, and he wondered if the Voldemort opposite him was doing the same, after all these years.

"You may try," said Voldemort. His voice was definitely amused now. Riddle wondered what Voldemort did all day. Surely, if he had anything better to do, he would have long since attempted to dispose of Riddle.

Riddle raised his wand and cast Flagrate. He didn't feel as if he could say that name aloud, ever – but it was appearing now, in cold green flame.

_P-e-t-e-_

That gash of a mouth opened itself slightly, like cracking clay.

_Peters_

Lord Voldemort rose and lifted his wand, still staring.

_Peterso_

His face twisted into the most vindictive snarl Riddle had ever seen.

_Peterson_

Voldemort slashed his wand downwards, and the letters dissipated with a quiet _hiss_. His face was hideous with rage, but he did not cast anything further on Riddle. "So you are Tom Riddle," he said, so very softly that it raised hairs.

Riddle said, "Yes."

"Tell me. How are you here?"

"I am every horcrux you've made that's been destroyed," said Riddle. Voldemort's red eyes never left Tom's; his spidery fingers never let go that familiar wand.

Riddle had not shut the door, but there was so much attention on the young Voldemort that no one – not even Voldemort himself, now that he was completely riveted – noticed the quiet outlines of figures slipping into the dark room, so slowly, Disillusioned, flat against the wall. Riddle continued talking, not daring to turn, wondering if they had started to come in yet, as planned. "I've been wondering," he said casually, inserting every ounce of calm strength he had into his voice. There was a war between their eyes, and Tom would not lose. "Have you forgotten what Hogwarts once was to you?"

An ugly sneer curled the edge of Voldemort's mouth, his papery skin seeming to glow red in the torchlight. Tom surveyed his older counterpart and slowly felt disgust seeping through him. This creature would be willing to slaughter every person within the castle just on the principle that they might harbor Harry Potter. There was _nothing special _about Harry Potter – he was just another teenage boy. And Voldemort was sitting there, so willing to tear down this castle stone from stone to get at that boy. "You dishonor the name of Salazar Slytherin," said Riddle carelessly. "You've forgotten what I know."

The rage that had only just started to precipitate from Voldemort's contorted features returned tenfold. "And what might that be, you ignorant little child?" he hissed.

"There are things that you put your respect in," Riddle said, and his voice was dark and mesmerizing. "There are things that are worth fighting for, and if fighting for them is no longer worth anything, then fighting for yourself is useless. You may as well stop until you manage to recreate some semblance of self-worth, _my Lord_." The last two words were as icily mocking as Riddle could make them. He even added a sarcastic little bow, the contemptuous look never leaving his eyes.

A hideous smile worked its way onto Voldemort's mouth, and he said, "Well, then. If you think you're 'worth fighting for', why don't you join me?" He leaned backwards, his red eyes unblinking. "We would be unstoppable." The high, dry voice was silky, mesmerizing, like the sinuous coils of Parseltongue, but Riddle just found his throat tight with revulsion at the idea of ever joining this person. Tom Riddle would never lower himself to rule a world ruined by fear-driven stupidity.

And in that second, Riddle realized that he wasn't afraid of dying.

It shocked him, and his eyes widened. Why? Why had the fear chosen to vanish just then?

That deep-rooted terror... it just wasn't _there_ anymore, and replacing it was blissfully temporary worry for his current wellbeing. As if he had anything to worry about.

Then, with a sudden, hot surge, he _felt_ unstoppable. He didn't _need_ this... this _thing_ in front of him, the creature that may once have resembled Tom Marvolo Riddle.

So a calm smile slid onto his mouth, and he said, "I don't believe I see the point."

Voldemort's face had resumed its impassive stare. "Really?"

"There's no use for you anymore," Riddle said calmly. "You're redundant. You're every part of me that was never worth anything. You're... refuse."

He stepped calmly out of the way of the Killing Curse, and Voldemort was on his feet. "I never anticipated you'd be the one I would fight," Voldemort said. "I hope, with all your schoolboy idiocy, you don't underestimate me."

"You don't merit underestimation," sneered Tom, and now the blood was pumping hot in his veins. This was satisfaction. Hermione's murderer, so close. This man, this bald-headed, seventy-year-old man, had caused Riddle so much irritation, so much woe. Tom drew himself up, disdain seated deep in every inch of his face. And then he saw how very alone this Voldemort was, and he felt a very strange emotion indeed – pity, for that thing standing there. Tom shook his head. Pity – the one thing that enraged him beyond all other, and it looked like Voldemort had recognized it in the face of his own self.

The duel started. Tom knew it would be something that everyone would remember for the rest of their lives, so he reveled in it. In every blistering, heart-stopping spell bursting from the end of his wand. In every failed attempt of his adversary, in every disregarded endeavor he himself made.

The room was lit bright with sparks, with Voldemort's bared teeth, with Tom's dark and glistening eyes. Shields flew up and were shattered. Unforgivables were ignored, ducked and avoided like they were child's hexes. Not a single jinx collided with its target, choosing instead the walls, the ceiling, the floor, and the noise was terrific. The very room trembled at their presence. The bones of the earth shuddered at their battle. It went on, on, on – maybe for a hundred years, maybe for ten minutes, but it felt like eternity.

Tom wondered if Voldemort had studied for as long as he had as he waved his wand. Blue waves thrummed tight from the tip, soaring out and engulfing Voldemort, who directed them at the chair behind him. It splintered into itself, leaving a forlorn pile of twigs on the ground, and Tom siphoned Voldemort's fiery hex out of the air. Nothing was unidentifiable.

The spells came so fast now that the air seemed sucked from the room. Tom had to remind himself to breathe, although he would not allow Voldemort the satisfaction of seeing him fazed by any attacks. Voldemort, though, had a snarl on his face, seemingly shameless about that sort of thing. That thing called _dignity._

Then the door slammed shut.

Riddle did not falter, but for just a half a second, Voldemort did, and then there was a huge slice down his upper arm, cutting right through his black robes into white skin.

Blood dripped down to the floor, but both duelists had stopped moving.

"This is my fight," said the voice by the door.

Harry Potter showed himself.

"Harry Potter," said Voldemort softly, and an almost-exquisite expression of delicate anguish creased its way onto his face. "After months of cowardice, you surface. I would not suppose you would dare to come alone." At those words, as if on cue, two dozen other people faded into sight, and Voldemort's eyes narrowed in surprise. "I welcome the entourage," he sneered. "Or, rather, my Death Eaters should extend a warm welcome."

That was a cue. Riddle blinked once, and then the spells were flying, and everything was deafening.

Yells from all sides, but Potter's group was scattering, now, threading themselves within the Death Eaters – and the Death Eaters were outnumbered by at least ten. Voldemort was dueling three, but Riddle was not one of them, as he was distracted for just a second as he scoured the room for Hermione.

There was an anguished cry. Her cry. And Riddle's heart stopped for a split second, but then he realized that if she'd been killed, she wouldn't have screamed.

The air, though – it was thick with green. Incapacitation meant death in this room. Tom contorted out of the way of a Killing Curse and found himself hurrying towards the direction of her yell.

She had her back against the wall. _Smart girl._ Her wandtip was trembling as it spat curse after curse, and next to her there was a body, and Hermione was crying openly, as if she was in pain.

"Neville," she sobbed, and dropped to the ground. A green spell knocked into the wall and extinguished itself, and Riddle couldn't keep his eyes off the huddled figure on the ground, disbelief trickling its way into him.

Neville Longbottom. Such a very long line of ancestry. A huge number of great wizards up that family tree, all those years, all those witches and wizards, funneled into this sad dead little heap on the floor –

Riddle snarled in rage, and he raised his wand again, but the movement sent a jolt of pain from his arm up to his brain, and he staggered back against the wall.

_No._

Riddle clutched at his upper arm. His fingers came away dark and wet with blood. There was a large cut there. A cut that hadn't been inflicted by another's wand.

He realized what it meant and didn't say a word. He just grabbed Hermione's hand tight, swallowed the immense lump in his throat, and started, again, to duel.

Everything that happened to Voldemort happened to him. This was the end.

It ended in stalemate. There were five dead on their side, two dead Death Eaters. Voldemort held up a hand, and like his followers were mechanical, they lowered their hands. "Harry Potter," the Dark Lord said quietly. "Harry Potter, and the rest of you live."

Harry stepped forward before anyone could say anything, but Hermione cried out, "Harry, no!"

Riddle clapped his hand over her mouth, but it was too late. Lord Voldemort had cast his eyes over and seen her, and his red eyes widened in utter shock, his gash of a mouth sagging open slightly. "How?" he breathed, and there was greed on his face. Disgusting, sick greed. Riddle felt revulsion swirl inside him, and dark anger surfaced on his face. Voldemort would _never _get at Hermione again.

But Voldemort's attention slowly turned back to Harry Potter, who stood, tall and strong, in front of him. Riddle found himself filled with terror. Icy terror. That cut on Voldemort's arm, the one that mirrored his – Voldemort stroked it with his wand, and it vanished. So did Tom's. The remaining blood ran warm down his arm, pooling in his hand, and trickled to the ground, but he could not hear it. Bits of him were leaving, and if Harry Potter finally killed Lord Voldemort, everything would leave. Voldemort's soul would drag him down to hell. _Forever._

Riddle felt himself quaking all of a sudden, and he leaned backwards and gripped onto the stone wall with his bloody hand, the other firmly holding Hermione's. _If I leave her..._

Nausea. Riddle closed his eyes for half a second and composed himself, his heart in his throat. Ron Weasley was to his left, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with his mother. The Weasley girl was closest to Potter, and Voldemort was raising his wand.

Riddle gripped Hermione's hand even tighter. This was what was supposed to happen. Voldemort would be so selfishly arrogant, so disbelieving that he could be defeated, that Harry Potter, ferociously righteous and loving, would kill him.

And he, Tom Riddle, would die too, a memory made and then frozen in time.

He resigned himself to it. Hermione would survive. That was what mattered.

He pocketed his wand, and his arm slid around Hermione's waist, holding her tight. Relishing it. He would be gone, and she would heal eventually, without... without him. He kissed the top of her head, his eyes never leaving the scene unfolding before them.

"What are you doing?" she whispered. Voldemort was talking. He was postulating something or other. How stereotypical.

"I need you here, my love," Riddle murmured. His voice held weight it had never held – the acceptance of the inevitable.

Voldemort said to Harry, "So, finally, boy, you come to me, holding back all these people who are willing to sacrifice themselves for you."

Harry Potter said, "All your people would die for you just the same."

"I do not deny it," Voldemort replied silkily. "I stop them from doing so out of confidence, though, not stupidity, and that is what separates us."

"No," Harry said.

The word took root in Riddle and swelled into a triumphant chorus. _Tell him, Harry Potter. He doesn't know the truth._

"What separates us is that the world would have been better if you were never born," said Harry Potter.

They raised their wands. This was the end, and Riddle's hand shook on Hermione's waist. She trembled and gripped him close, and he wondered if he could have chosen a way to die... he wondered what it would have been like. Would it have compared to this?

Tom Riddle closed his eyes.

xXxXxXxXx

Hermione was panicking. The way Tom was holding her was like a last farewell. Harry was staring down Lord Voldemort. She couldn't seem to breathe as the mouths of the duelists opened.

It happened so quickly.

"Avada Kedavra," said the Dark Lord Voldemort.

"Expelliarmus," roared the voice of the Boy Who Lived.

The spells barely missed each other. The green slid by the red, and both hit their targets, and then – and then Hermione's throat unlocked and she screamed and screamed and screamed for it seemed to have happened in a single second, and just like that Harry Potter was no longer the Boy Who Lived. He was dead.

Ginny was screaming and then with a flash of green from a Death Eater's wand and Ginny diving out of the way it became apparent that Lord Voldemort had had no intention of keeping anyone else alive even after Harry – even after Harry –

Hermione couldn't seem to do anything else besides scream, a raw throaty painful tear – screaming as she had never heard herself scream before, and then there was a sharp yank on her waist and she was cut short. She looked over at Tom, and he was shoving Ron and Mrs. Weasley ahead of him, through the door. There was a frantic scramble, a mass exodus.

Hermione retched over and over as she stumbled out of the doorway. It was sick, leaving Harry and Neville behind, leaving Ernie Macmillan and Pomona Sprout, leaving Padma Patil and that young Gryffindor boy, Euan Abercrombie – Hermione had never known him but he was dead and she'd never know him now and she could never know Harry ever again –

Her feet pounded the stone. Over and over and over. She heard a shriek from inside the room. "_Bring me that girl!_"

Hermione's throat tightened in fear and she stumbled – but Tom's hand dragged her forward. They skidded around the corner, Ron and Mrs. Weasley and Ginny hot on their heels – and Tom stopped and closed his eyes. He looked sick for a second, and then he aimed his wand at his own leg and flicked it.

There was a disgusting _crack_, but Tom was not the one screaming. It was a high, angry scream back from the room, and Hermione's mind swam with unanswered questions and the hot acidic burn of fear. "What are you doing?" she hissed, her voice raw and sharp. She dropped by his shin and tapped the break, and it sealed up – "Come on" – and they were sprinting again, after Ron and Ginny and Mrs. Weasley, sprinting until they could not anymore and they were inside the Kitchens.

There was nothing left for the Death Eaters to do now but exterminate them. There would be no more interrogation about the whereabouts of Harry Potter, for there was no more Harry Potter.

Hermione felt disbelief numbing her coolly, and she welcomed it. Maybe she could just live in denial forever, forever and ever and just believe that Harry was somehow still alive, for there was no way Voldemort could have just torn him from her that fast... that damned fast, surely not.

It should not have happened this way.

Ginny was wailing.

There were a few figures trailing through the portrait hole – Kingsley, McGonagall, Hagrid. Percy and George. Fleur. They'd all managed to stay together. "We should have stayed there," Hermione whispered, and she wasn't sure who she was whispering to exactly. "We should have stayed and we should have killed him."

She sank down, exhausted, to the stone floor, and Riddle followed her carefully, holding her from behind. "I can't believe it," Riddle said quietly, and the words sank into her like tight hot bullets of realism. Hermione closed her eyes and felt the stone cold on her legs, and how strange that Harry could never again feel a stone like she was feeling this one, not with nerve endings that had no life behind them...

Hermione Granger closed her eyes and turned her head to press her face to Tom's chest. Harry wouldn't be in that median world. He had no secrets to keep. Harry Potter was dead.

It wouldn't stop washing up against her, a huge ailing tsunami about to burst on itself and crash down.

Tears started to leak under her eyelids, and she shook, her face spreading itself out into hideous misery, sobs eking themselves from her open mouth. _Oh, God, Harry – Harry why would you – how could you – no –_

_ How could we have just stood there?_

And now Voldemort was out to find her, and her alone, for she had returned from the dead. Hermione made herself as small as possible, her arms around her knees, Tom as wrapped around her as he could possibly be. He was making small shushing noises, and that just amplified her sobs, her misery.

Hermione lifted her head, removing her fingernails from her shaking palms. They were bloody. Ginny appeared to have torn out some of her own hair, and was lying, screaming, convulsing on the floor as if she'd been stabbed. The adults were quiet. Hagrid had golf-ball tears rolling down his cheeks. McGonagall appeared to be praying. Mrs. Weasley was staring blankly at the wall, and Ron had conjured a set of what seemed to be china plates and was throwing them at the ground, his mouth opened wide in a silent yell, his blue eyes squinted shut and crying. He drew in a screaming breath and threw a plate at the ground. It shattered, and the noise made Hermione stop breathing for a second, because she could almost picture her heart breaking with the sound.

Tom looked weary. He looked hollow, as if this had been the last thing he'd ever anticipated.

Hermione drew in a deep breath through her nose, wiping her eyes, wiping her face. _We can still win. Even without Harry. We can kill Voldemort. We can avenge Harry James Potter._

Her eyes were sore already from crying.

She enfolded herself in Tom's arms, rocking back and forth in inexpressible misery, and she wondered why this could happen, why this was a possibility, why there had been no one there to stop it from happening.

Was there a God?

xXxXxXxXx

The next day was spent, for those who found themselves able, putting up every single imaginable ward around the Kitchens. Every survivor in their band had managed to trail back to the Kitchens – all but those five dead, and... and Harry.

It was no longer an option to send out searches for other people, for they were under siege. Attacks barraged the wards day and night. McGonagall had managed to put a Fortinbras' Membrane up, and that seemed to shield the brunt of the attacks all on its own. It was the same bubble-like type of shield that Voldemort had created around the entire school.

Hermione had felt like the entire situation wasn't happening, like it was an alternate universe in which everything had just happened to veer away from its intended course. But a sluggish sense of reality started to seep in after the initial 24 hours, after Ginny stopped speaking, after everything started to seem purposeless to Hermione.

"It'll be all right," Tom said that evening, and it was all Hermione found herself torn between protesting hotly and bursting into fresh tears. They were alone in the House-elf quarters. The torches were lit, and it was bright. "We can get rid of him."

"How?" Tom did not answer, but it was not a mystified silence. It was the silence of withheld truths, and Hermione slowly turned to look at him. "What is it?"

Tom turned his eyes to the table. "I broke my leg while we were running, and it broke his, too. Whatever I do to myself happens to him. When I cut his arm, it cut mine."

His voice was quiet and factual, but Hermione's eyes blazed suddenly. "You knew about this?"

He looked at her, his cool stare matching her burning gaze. "Since right before Potter stepped up."

"You would have died," Hermione whispered, disbelieving, looking at him in horror. "If Harry had killed him. If... if Harry had killed him, you would also have... you would be dead."

Tom nodded, and his dark eyes were serious. "I was willing to overlook that, in the moment," he murmured.

Then she was kissing him passionately, right there in the miserable atmosphere, and she pulled away with a sharp intake of breath and suddenly she was crying again. "If he gets killed," she said, her voice thick, "you'll die."

Hermione couldn't believe it. Whatever happened to Voldemort happened to Tom. Everything she had feared most was realizing itself – what was there to _do_?

For them to leave the grounds, Voldemort needed to be dead.

For Voldemort to be dead, Tom needed to die.

Hermione felt, in that second, that just killing herself was possibly the most realistic option, but as she looked at Tom, she knew she couldn't ever actually do it. Not while he still clutched her hands, telling her that he needed her. Not while there were so many people out there who needed their help. Not while Ron and Ginny and Luna and everyone else was still alive, for God knew they needed each other to lean on.

Tom couldn't seem to speak. That tiny crease had appeared in-between his straight eyebrows, and the tiny aperture between his lips spoke volumes by itself, spoke words he couldn't seem to form. "Hermione, you know what needs to happen," he said at last.

"No," she said. "No." And she sucked back her hopeless tears. "I won't let you do that. I can't. You can't... you can't _die._"

A muscle tightened in his jaw at the word. "If I do, the entire Wizarding World is saved. Hermione, if I do, your life is saved. He's –" he pointed at the door – "looking for you, now. And I will _never_ let him do... what he did – again. No."

The words had to be the choppiest, the hardest-spoken, that Hermione had ever heard from his lips. He was writing his own death sentence, and Hermione pressed herself tight against him. "No," she said, and it seemed to be all she could think of, bizarrely. How could he take himself from her? Willingly? All the time in the world had turned into none at all.

"With every passing moment," Tom murmured, "Voldemort is probably getting closer to killing someone, whoever it is. And the only person, really, who shouldn't be here -"

"Don't say that, don't say it -"

"Is me."

Hermione stood up violently, and Tom followed slowly. "No," she whispered fiercely. "You're who Tom Riddle was _supposed_ to be. You're the one who should be here, not Voldemort – this was supposed to happen; you were supposed to come back -"

He slowly put his hand to her face. "Hermione," he whispered, and his eyes were bright suddenly with unshed tears, "this is harder for me than anything has ever been. Please – please don't make it worse. I'm not supposed to be here. The only reason I am is for you."

Her embrace was crushing, and Tom turned his face up to the ceiling, feeling a deep, hollow ache inside him. As he held her small body, he wondered how he could do it to himself, to her. He wondered how he could remove himself from her arms, let alone from her world. He'd had a taste of what it was like to live, to truly _live_, with love, whole, unbroken – and he wasn't sure what it would be like to go back to being alone. Torturous, at the very least. Indescribable.

Tom gritted his teeth and fought back humiliating tears. He turned his face back downwards and buried his nose in her thick hair. She didn't smell like herself. She smelled like sweat, like dirt, like blood.

The Heir of Slytherin pondered why exactly he was preparing himself for something that was so utterly Gryffindor. He wanted to live. He wanted to live with Hermione by his side. Why should he even consider sending himself away?

Then again, that was the way love worked, wasn't it? You did things you never wanted to do. Just for them. And realizing that he understood that filled him with gratitude, for she had finally managed to make him understand.

Tom held her for – he didn't even know how long.

"When?" Hermione whispered, her voice low in his ear. When would he rip himself from her? When would he leave her utterly alone? What would happen to his soul? It had been through so much; surely after being healed, it was still shaky – still riddled with remorse-sized gaps, just waiting for him to die and then what if he flew apart and was trapped in limbo forever –

She sucked in a breath, pressing her cheek into the fabric of his sweater, and she wished for things to have been different. "You said you'd never break my heart again."

"I'm sorry." His voice was a broken whisper. "Hermione Granger, you've changed me. You've saved the unsalvageable, and I love you desperately for it. But everything and everyone has its time. You know that. I know that –" His voice cracked. Moisture glistened in his eyes.

Hermione wiped her face, and then she kissed him furiously, a clumsy, shattering kiss, her fingers holding his face tight, his hands wound tight into her hair. She moved against him until he was pressed against the wall, and she started crying even as they kissed, as his hands made their familiar path up and down her body – and she couldn't imagine those hands immobile, no longer able to hold that wand and do such brilliant magic – and she _cried_ –

"Tom," she sobbed. "Tom, I love you." Was there anything else to say? Was there anything else to _do?_ How could they move away from each other; how could he pull out his wand and end everything she could once have hoped for?

"I love you," he murmured fiercely. "I love you. I..." His voice trailed off, and he looked at the wall over her shoulder and tilted his face upwards, his hand flying to his face as if to contain himself, and he heaved a tremendous, ungraceful sniff, his mouth open slightly, and then he held his breath and shut his eyes. Shut those dark eyes, and from under his tangled lashes spilled unhindered drops, and he bit out a curse.

Hermione wiped his eyes softly and kissed him, both their faces sticky with tears and mucus and misery. Their hands twisted up in each other, gripping too hard.

"Just know," Tom said, his low voice filled with utter longing, "that I am so sorry for what I've done."

"No," she whispered, but Tom felt the remorse bubbling up through the loosely held cracks in his soul. Maybe this was for the better. Maybe... maybe this would fix it. Maybe this would make those cracks disappear, those cracks dividing his soul up into seven pieces, cracks bridged only by gelatinous fearful remorse and missing only that fragment inside Voldemort.

He kissed her. "Please, let your friends know it was me," he murmured. He kissed her. Her lips were soft and cool and wet. "Let them know I loved you more than I loved myself." He kissed her again. Her hazel eyes were shot with passion, and he felt his hands shaking like they'd never shaken.

Tom reached into his pocket and took out his wand. They lowered themselves to the floor, and Hermione sat behind Tom and held him and he leaned back in her arms and felt his soul just about to burst in shameful remorse, and in anticipation –

Hermione leaned down and kissed him. He placed his wandtip to his chest.

"I love you, Tom Marvolo Riddle," Hermione whispered.

"And I will always love you," Tom whispered back, reaching his hand up to touch the curve of her face. She pressed her lips to his fingertips, holding his hand tight in hers.

No, he realized.

He would not have dreamed dying any other way.

"Avada Kedavra," he whispered, and the green light hit him, and some massive explosion took place inside him, and then the world went black. Black and dark and colder than rain.

xXxXxXxXx

"Avery?" said Nott quietly. "What's happened?"

Voldemort had suddenly keeled forward in his chair, and Nott didn't know what to do. Was he ill? Was there any reason for the Dark Lord just to pass out, without any seeming source? They didn't dare speak to him, of course, so they just stood, staring at him for what must have been minutes before Avery managed, "My Lord?"

There was no response. Voldemort remained hunched over. Nott and Avery exchanged glances with Amycus, the only other Death Eater who wasn't barraging the Kitchen in an attempt to get at that girl who'd come back from the dead.

"My Lord?" Avery said again, louder, and mentally steeled himself to be cursed. But nothing happened. The dark figure in the chair did not move, did not fold himself back into a sitting position.

The Dark Lord had just been awake. There was no way he could have fallen asleep like that. "My Lord, wake up," Amycus said urgently. But there was no reaction. None at all.

And through the lone window set in that wall, Avery saw something.

The huge screen, that tremendous bubble, was peeling away bit by bit. Sizzling away into nothingness.

Avery's eyes widened. "Look," he said, and the other two men glanced up and out of the window.

Nott slowly walked over and placed a finger on the Dark Lord's shoulder, preparing to jump away.

He did not have to. Lord Voldemort was dead.

Nott slowly leaned the tall man back into a sitting position. His head lolled. His mouth drooped open. The red eyes did not open. Nott placed a hand on Voldemort's chest and swallowed. There was no heartbeat. There was nothing.

Amycus' eyes fixed on that tiny remaining patch of Fortinbras' Membrane as it slowly folded in on itself – and then – _bang._

A rush of cold air rocketed outwards from the boundaries and there was a tremendous, heart-stopping _smash_ as every single window in the castle was shattered. "We need to get out of here," said Avery, his voice hoarse.

They fled, and they left the door open, and anyone who might have cared could have walked in and seen Lord Voldemort sitting dead in front of a lonely fire.

But no one cared.

xXxXxXxXx

There was utter confusion in the Kitchens. Every single one of the high windows had burst inwards.

Had Lord Voldemort decided to take down the constraints?

"No," Professor McGonagall said. "The only reason it would have explosive force would be if its source... was destroyed."

Shocked silence descended. "How?" managed Ron, his face white as a sheet. "Is this some sort of bloody joke?"

But the noises of explosions at the portrait were streaming away, too. McGonagall approached the portrait and opened it slightly. There were yells from outside. "Run!" said a deep male voice. "The Dark Lord has fallen!"

Cool air, cool outside air, was streaming in through the windows. It was mid-spring, and the breeze smelled like newness, smelled like fresh rain.

And then there were joyful tears. Tears and disbelief. And no one heard, from the House-elf quarters, the sobs.

xXxXxXxXx

It had just been a brief flash of green. It had slid onto him, and then his hand had fallen to his chest, like he'd just been laying it there, ready for the next spell.

He lay on the ground, and Hermione felt something strange inside her as she looked at him. She shook him gently, as if expecting him to stir.

After all that time, he and Lord Voldemort had been so inexorably tied to each other. She should not have anticipated anything different.

Hermione bit her lip. She bit her lip so hard she tasted blood. She bit her lip so hard she could feel her teeth digging into it. But there was nothing, right then, except his body on the floor. There was nothing except the intelligence that had died from his dark eyes, which were open, as if he were just about to turn his head and look at her. There was nothing except some defilement which had settled itself into her heart, rooting as if nothing else could ever be there.

She leaned down and pressed her lips to his, and for a moment she could almost believe that he would sit up and respond. For a moment she could almost believe that this body was still a human being with beliefs and talents and – and emotions.

Her tears fell onto his face, and for a second she had no voice to cry her sobs. It came, though. Everything came to her with the hammer's smash of realization, and Hermione Granger curled herself up next to Tom Riddle's warm body and put her arms around him and cried and screamed for he'd left her alone.

_For neither could live while the other survived._

"Tom," she said, and she wasn't sure how many times she said the word but he didn't answer. Those lips never parted. Those lips would never make another wry comment, would never say another spell. Those lips would never be warm and firm against her own again.

Hermione, through her haze, heard voices outside. Heard the joyous triumphant shaky relieved voices. But she could not emerge. She didn't think she would ever emerge. After all they'd been through, after all they'd promised, the boy lying in front of her was gone, and that seemed to be all that she could try to manage right now. "I love you," she said. "I love you."


	33. Chapter 33

**Physics chick, Lost O'Fallon Girl, bwahahaha XD, Risottonocheese, iamweasleyfred, Jen, Galavantian, TheLivelyLynx, 13Nyx13, theatre-gypsy, Senko Ryu, Helen3616, MissImpossible, philmaester, Bellas Decathexis, PsychoBookworm121, sweet-tang-honney, Blazing Ocean, AKEMI SHIKON, Inky Marshmallow, psalmofsummer, Adrenaline Junkie In Da House, sexy-jess, XxXxMyNameIsLilyPotterxXxX, TigerWolf, xPaintedxRedx, IsabellaEnglund, BethanyTheresa, ChildoftheLight, sejohnson, Agent Twinkle Toes, Dinobunny, lekass, Incredibly Anonymous, cerulean azure, sunny098, Kristin82, vepo6, looksponge, magentasouth, MrsMargeryLovett, Alrauna, Scarlett, AddictedToFF, katieeee, jazzflame, Ashlikescash, Bloombright, chrissytingting, CorpseBox, xXx-ReBeCcA-xXx, Magtaria, sweetalk979, Ishkie, Jessi, Sterope, Ember Nickel, Madame Dee, Samochan, Rachael, loupyloupowell, The Lady Massacre, Pintoness, TommmmLover, My Misguided Fairytale, Caitlynism, deator11, queenreebee, LarkaSpirit, xXBlueDazeXx, sweetgal3, Moi Belle, AudioIrrelevance, emobabygirl101, Le26199, angel226, VeniVidiVici92, Tea42, Shelby, Proudly Weird, cooopercrisp, arrrrghhh, HardCritic, AeriaBell, and Less Wrong...**

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**Speechwriter.**

* * *

Ron Weasley put his arms around his sister. They'd lost so much. A brother. Two brothers – Fred and Harry. His best friend since the day they'd met. And Ginny seemed utterly lost without the presence of the headstrong green-eyed boy. It was worse for her than it had been those empty seven months, because now she knew that he was dead. She had seen it happen.

Harry had been so confident.

If Voldemort was going to die anyway... couldn't the world have left Harry to them?

Ron had no doubt that it wasn't fair, but right then, standing in the Kitchens, numbed by shock, all he could feel was a massive wave of relief. It rolled out the tension in every inch of him, and he was hugging his sister and kissing his mother and crying and everyone in sight was unified in sheer joy. Just for that second, the loss of Harry Potter was overshadowed.

Professor McGonagall was doing something to the wards she'd set up at the portrait hole. The Fortinbras' Membrane was folding down on itself until it vanished with a tiny _pop_, and the other wards sucked themselves away with swishing noises, and as McGonagall opened the portrait wide onto the deserted hallway, it hit them all again – _it was over._

Lord Voldemort was dead.

Ron raised his fist and found himself yelling in victory, and a chorus of yells joined him, joyous yells, and they spilled out into the hallway and ran up to the Entrance Hall.

The Death Eaters were running out of the great doors in the Entrance Hall, which flew open with a _bang_. Glorious light cascaded in, stretching from floor to heavens in long, mist-illuminated rays. Ron squinted. He hadn't seen light like that in a long time – and the dark figures fleeing down the lawn were being pursued by Kingsley Shacklebolt, by McGonagall, by his mother.

Ron found his mouth spreading wide in a smile as he looked up at the sky. _This is for you, mate._ This was for Harry Potter.

Ron turned and it was like the breath was knocked out of him.

Descending the sweeping staircase was a thin, tall man, whose last patches of red hair had lost their violent color. He looked more tired than Ron had ever seen.

"Dad," Ron said quietly. Next to him, Ginny and Bill turned around, and Ginny grabbed George by the shoulder. Percy was the last to turn, his stern face losing all its jaded cynicism as he saw his father coming down the steps.

They sprinted up the stairs and closed their father in the tightest hug they had ever given anyone, and the only thing missing was Mrs. Weasley, who was still running down the lawn, incapacitating Death Eater after Death Eater.

And they cried for Harry and they cried for themselves. "It's over," said Percy, and he was just realizing it. "It's over."

xXxXxXxXx

Hermione lifted him by herself. She carried him out into the deserted Kitchens, which were hushed in the aftermath of the happy cheers, and laid his lifeless body on a table.

She looked up at the broken windows. The grey sky glimmered through the gaps in the grime-covered glass, and the cheerless color somehow reinforced the leaden weight inside her.

_I have no doubt, Hermione, that you shall move on._ She closed her eyes.

It hurt, the sudden, pervasive fear. Fear at a life without him? Fear at herself without him?

Herself without him. Yes, that was the phrase she'd been hunting for, the one that made her feel like she was going to throw up. Hermione pressed the heels of her hands onto her closed eyes, trying to massage away the tears. It was over. Everything was finally over – but Hermione couldn't focus on anything more besides _this_ being over.

It had been perhaps fifteen minutes. He was cool to the touch, now. His eyes were still clear, like liquid chocolate, but there was nothing behind them.

As she examined his still features, tenderness swelled inside her. She surveyed his expression, the expression he'd died with. Blank. Blank, like he'd been forced to live his whole life. But she'd seen that tiny smile at the edge of his lips before he'd said the words, before every muscle in his body had gone lax. She'd seen the love in his eyes, the knowledge that this was a rational decision, the right thing to do.

Hermione kept stroking the back of his hand with her thumb. Tom Marvolo Riddle, the most enigmatic person she would ever know. She smoothed down his hair until it was perfect again.

It was strange to think of the little things. He couldn't breathe anymore. The air in his lungs was closed and stale and would live there until he rotted. He couldn't think, either. That brain inside his skull was nothing more than tissue. These hands, these perfectly tapering fingers, could never hold anything again. The muscles of his arms could never contract as he lifted a book to hand it to her. His right eyebrow would never lift itself questioningly again. Those sculpted lips could never quiver in derisive laughter, could never smirk, could never part and spill the words she wanted to hear. Or words she didn't want to hear. There was nothing behind this handsome face – not anymore. It was just a face, now. It was not Tom Riddle.

Hermione was on the very edge of the bench, and suddenly she toppled over the edge and was kneeling on the ground, her innards twisting in pain.

One of her hands grappled with her frizzy hair. _Get it together, Hermione Granger._ She sucked in a deep breath and tried to force back the pain, which was radiating out from the very center of her body. It was nothing she'd ever felt before. It was the uncomfortable yank of a Portkey, multiplied a thousand times.

Hermione stood slowly, closing her eyes, taking a deep, shaking, painful breath that cut to the bottom of her lungs and spiked back those hot inconsistent tears. She cast one last glance at the prone figure on the table. No more. Tom Riddle was dead, and the earlier she managed to accept it, the better it would be for her.

Though God knew it hadn't really hit her yet.

She left him lying on the table, leaving part of herself with him, and walked out of the Kitchens.

As she moved slowly through the hallways, she could hear echoes of joy resounding around the stone walls. It made her feel almost sick, but a faint smile made its way onto her lips nonetheless, as if she were trying to fool anyone who might have been watching.

She walked up a set of stairs and found herself in the Entrance Hall. The Grand Staircase glowed self-conscious in that new light through the doors, the light that practically blinded her.

Everyone else had left the building. Everyone was walking down the lawn, or was descending those steps in front of the doors. There were people leaving that Hermione hadn't seen – people they hadn't managed to coax out of hiding. They were all going out into that world. A world free from the Dark Lord.

She leaned backwards against the staircase's rail and sat down, an entirely unprompted feeling coursing through her – _joy_.

It grew and grew until she thought she might burst, but the other half of her heart was so heavy that it weighed her down. The torn feeling made her start to cry, and she wasn't sure whether it was in joy or in misery.

She stood and stalked to that doorway, but she couldn't go through, because her hand found the doorframe. That huge, wooden post, surely a whole tree. That same one she'd leaned against as he'd approached her. Hermione's face contorted in pain, and she trailed one finger down the wood. This archway, where they'd spoken late into the night, where he'd said that he'd like to get to know her better, where he'd been so shocked when she'd dared to call his bluff.

Hermione's eyes lowered themselves to the ground, and she leaned her forehead against the wood as she recalled every moment they'd had. Every moment she could draw upon to stave off her anguish.

That unbidden joy within her grew into elation, and simultaneously the depression sank down into the very deepest trench of utter misery.

This building, sacred to Tom Riddle, Jr., housed his memory now. Housed his... his corpse. Hermione swallowed.

How had he felt when he'd done his first charm with a wand? How had he felt brewing his first potion? Such talent, rivaled only by Albus Dumbledore... gone... _I will miss everything about you so much – your arrogance, your intellect, your kiss, your smile, your honor..._ She composed the eulogy inside her head for the funeral she knew he would never receive. Only when she was able to force herself back down to the Kitchens to retrieve his body would he even be buried, probably. There would be no recognition for him, no glory, although Hermione fully intended to tell the Order the sacrifice he'd made – the sacrifice that had proved beyond shadow of a doubt that he'd loved her.

_Tell them I loved you more than I loved myself._

Eyes still shut, Hermione tilted her head and faced back the way she'd come. These halls of Hogwarts, so familiar, so dreaded, so loved. Could they ever look the same to her again?

She wondered what she'd see when she opened her eyes. Would she see the place of her nightmares? Would she see an imagined glimmer of the in-between world, in all its perfection? Would she see the place of arching wonder that she'd seen her first time setting foot inside Hogwarts? The identity of the school had undergone so much twisted transformation, and the cool dark red inside her eyelids shielded her from whatever she might think.

Hermione opened her eyes, but she couldn't focus on the dusty, dimly-lit hallway in front of her for just what it was. She could only see what it meant.

Emptiness embodied.

She turned back to the sun and stepped into the new world.

oOo

The funeral for Harry James Potter was held on April 20th in a remote area of Great Britain. Nearly three million witches and wizards flooded the area to pay respects to one of the bravest wizards who had ever lived. It had been perpetuated, in the general public, that Harry had killed Voldemort, and Hermione did not correct it, and it would be written in the annals of history.

oOo

Hermione started by writing Percy daily. He was the only one, initially, who would read what she wrote, but eventually contributions from George, Charlie and Bill started to trickle in, and then Mr. Weasley and Ginny, and then, finally, Ron and Mrs. Weasley. Hermione explained that the true reason Voldemort had died was that Tom had cast the Killing Curse on himself.

They didn't care.

None of the Order cared.

They could not sympathize with the dead they believed unredeemed.

But in the end, Hermione knew his sacrifice didn't need approval. It ran deeper than credit, deeper than hearsay, deeper than even respect. Its true worth had burned her to the core with its purity, and perhaps it was better that only they two would ever understand what it truly meant. What it meant for him to have done it.

oOo

Tom Marvolo Riddle, Jr. is in the dark.

He swims through it.

He kicks at the creature that clutches to his ankles, the fraction of himself that refuses to heal.

Its grip weakens and eventually drops away ...

He is free.

weightless.

unbound.

he leaves that dark fragment behind in the depths of time –

.

and his soul soars.

.

he rises through the

darkness

and

_._

bursts

_._

_._

out

_._

_._

_._

into

_._

_._

_._

_._

glorious

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_light._

_Fin_

* * *

**NOTE: The original ending can be found in my profile under Tied for Last: Original Ending. (Creative titling, I know.)**

**Thank you so much for taking this journey with me. I've learned so much about writing. And, um, about the internet. And I hope you enjoyed the trip as thoroughly as I did – every word, every minute, every second.**

** With love, as always,**

** Speechwriter.**


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